


Get Your Kinks Out

by Cassiopeias_shadow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Dom Harry, Dom Harry Potter, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Felching, Feminine Draco Malfoy, Femme Draco, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Lace Panties, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miscommunication, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panty Kink, Quidditch, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Sub Draco Malfoy, Threesome, Top Harry, Under-negotiated Kink, Weddings, Yes Sir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiopeias_shadow/pseuds/Cassiopeias_shadow
Summary: Harry plays seeker for the Magpies, and he discovers that one of his teammates secretly wears lace panties.What begins as a sexual relationship becomes increasingly complicated by Harry’s fame, Draco’s family, and Harry’s ambivalent feelings about dominating Draco.(Slow burn on the feelings, short fuse on the smut.)Late edit: this has become a serialized novel of my many and diverse sexual fantasies involving top! Harry and femme Draco.  There is a plot, but it’s delightfully thin.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 119
Kudos: 905





	1. Chapter 1

It was almost noon, and Harry was hungry. 

They had been practicing all morning. He’d taken a bludger once to the gut and once to the head. He’d caught the snitch five times, but the last time he couldn’t remember as he was seriously concussed. 

After a visit with the healer, he’d been sent off the field. Two days sidelined as the potions worked on him. Frustrating, but not as bad as it could be. Oliver Wood had been kept off the team for a week last month while his skull knitted back together after a bad hit from a bat. 

The beater that nailed Harry was playing harder than he should in practice. Adrian Pucey. He was nice enough, but he had been hazing Harry since he’d joined the team in March, always sending a bludger his direction, stealing his jersey while Harry was in the shower, daring him to drink firewhiskey shots when he was already half pissed at the pub. 

Every muscle in Harry’s arms ached as he shouldered his broom and walked off. October in Scotland was Harry’s favorite time of year. A cool mist hit his face, and the ocean waves crashed just east of the pitch. Behind him, great big hills in the distance were occluded by the fog. He could hear the distant sounds in the village of children playing on the playground at the local primary school. Seagulls squawked and cawed along the shore. Harry was so glad he’d left the Auror academy to come here. Life was simple, there was no paperwork, and he went home exhausted each day. 

His ears were ringing from the cold and the concussion as he opened the thick wooden door to the Magpie’s locker room. He pulled his black jersey over his head, careful to store this one in his locker; if Pucey took his long sleeved jersey, he had only the short sleeves for the next week, and the forecast looked chilly. 

Despite the cold outside, Harry was covered in sweat. His hair was plastered to his head, and he had grass stains all over his arms where he went down hard onto the field after the snitch. He’d need a shower before he got anything to eat. 

His trousers were a bit difficult to pull off. They were getting small. With all the exercise on his broom and in the weight room, Harry’s legs had gotten much bigger lately, and his trousers looked like they’d been painted on most days. Same with his jersey; Harry’s arms and shoulders had gotten so broad he’d had to order another one from the team outfitter. 

Harry hung his cape and his trousers on the hook next to his locker. He walked across the frigid tiles to the showers. He pulled the curtain back, and stepped in, turning the heat on the water up high. 

The hot shower made Harry lethargic after so much time in the cold air. He spent more time than necessary washing all the grime off himself, then turned the water off and sat on the bench for a good five minutes watching the water swirl down the drain and drip from the walls. Harry leant back on the bench, resting his head up against the wall. His concussion symptoms were mostly gone, but the potions made him drowsy, and he dozed for a minute in the steamy shower air. 

When he stirred a few minutes later, someone else had entered the locker room and was changing, making small noises just beyond the shower curtain. Harry grabbed a towel and walked back out to the lockers, drying his hair. 

As he walked out of the shower and took the towel off his head, he stopped short. 

The Magpie’s reserve chaser was in the locker room, naked, holding a towel in a wad over his bits, and looking terrified. 

The reserve chaser. _Draco_ _Malfoy,_ the reserve chaser, was naked, holding a towel in a wad over his bits, looking terrified, and turning beet red. 

Harry was momentarily stunned. “Malfoy,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. 

Malfoy swiftly recovered. The puce tone of his skin receded, and he straightened up. “Potter.” 

Harry stared at him a second more. Malfoy nodded at him, but didn’t move, or remove the towel, or make for the showers. He stayed frozen in place. Odd. Nobody who played Quidditch at school, and certainly not professionally, was at all shy about being naked in the locker room. Perhaps Malfoy felt awkward around him. 

“Sorry,” Harry said, as he side stepped him. “I’ll just be on my way.” 

“Right.” Malfoy turned toward Harry as he walked past, keeping his back to the wall. “Thanks.” 

“Er… no problem.” Harry went to get the rest of his kit out of his locker, and as he did so, Malfoy made a quick dash into the showers. Harry saw a gleam of pale skin stretched over muscle out of the corner of his eye as Malfoy swifty pulled the shower curtain closed. And he also saw….. No. 

It couldn’t be. 

\-------------------------

It was six o’clock now, and Harry had been sat at the pub drinking steadily for two hours. 

The first thing he’d done when he walked in was order a chicken curry with a big side of scotch eggs. He’d been starving, so hungry he had no room in his head to think over what he thought he’d seen. He tucked in, eating ravenously, and ordered a pint. Then another pint. 

Then he moved onto whiskey. 

Malfoy had been on the team an even shorter time than Harry. Only two months ago, in August, he’d been signed, after being released from his year long probation following his family’s sentencing after the war. Nothing had been said about him in the press all that time, only that Harry Potter had spoken at his trial, that he’d been sentenced, and he planned to reside in a townhouse in Kensington after Malfoy Manor was sold to pay reparations. 

After that, nobody had heard of him. He hadn’t applied for any training programs at the ministry, hadn’t turned up at Hogwarts to take his N.E.W.T.S., hadn’t worked at a shop in Diagon Alley. Considering his upbringing, it was unsurprising that Malfoy didn’t have a job. People like him generally considered themselves above work, and being  _ persona non grata _ at the Ministry meant he couldn’t sit on boards or run specious charities, as his father had done. The Malfoys lived lives of privilege and leisure. 

It made sense, then, that Malfoy’s only real interest would be in playing sport. He was decent enough, but not good enough to be first string. He hadn’t acquired the breadth in the shoulder most men get as they leave adolescence; he was still a bit skinny at nineteen, but he was a quick flyer and had a decent arm when he threw the quaffle. Maddock had convinced the owner of the Magpies to sign him onto the reserve team, and after a little grumbling from the others, he began scrimmages at the end of summer. 

Malfoy didn’t come out for drinks with them though. He didn’t engage in their joking, he didn’t get hazed by Adrian Pucey. Everyone left him well enough alone, and he returned the favor. Up until today, Harry had assumed he was the same arrogant sod he’d always been, but without all the theatrics he’d put on in school.

If he was removed socially from the rest of the team, Harry thought, it was more by choice than anything. A few of the team members had been in Slytherin, and only Oliver Wood had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. Nobody held any grudges against him, but Malfoy still seemed to turn up his nose at the rest of them. 

Harry sipped at the rest of his whiskey. The rest of the team would be here soon. With the training they did, they couldn’t go out every night, or even every week, but it was the Friday before Halloween, and they’d all be wanting a few drinks at least. While he waited for them, Harry tried to decide whether he’d really seen what he thought he saw. He turned it over in his mind, slowly, considering. 

Pale skin. Muscled shoulders. His ribcage. Malfoy’s flat stomach. His thin, delicate legs. And in between his stomach and his legs, a flash of black fabric. 

Not fabric. Not  _ just  _ fabric. Not cotton. Or silk. 

_ Lace _ . 

Harry thought about whether he was  _ sure _ that’s what he saw. On the one hand, he didn’t catch a good look. It was momentary. Fleeting.

On the other, even from the half look he got, Harry was sure that Malfoy had been wearing black lace panties. The lace was half transparent, not entirely opaque, and he had seen the pattern of it, intricate black threads with Malfoy’s moon white skin behind it. 

And then, when he’d turned into the shower…. The fabric had disappeared into a thick string in Malfoy’s arse. It was a thong. 

No sooner had Harry arrived at this conclusion than Oliver Wood, Adrian Pucey, and the team captain, Alasdair Maddock, arrived in the pub, loudly arguing and shoving each other and laughing. Harry roused himself from his thoughts and joined them at a larger table, ordering a round of pints and offering his plate of eggs to share. 

\------------------------

By half past midnight, Harry had stumbled home into bed. On the way back, he’d stubbed his toe on one of the cobblestones on the street, and it throbbed as he took off his shoes, and then his clothes. Harry focused on it as he got into bed, on the pain of it. It helped him think about something besides what he’d seen in the lockers. 

He’d spent all night drinking, singing songs with the other players, arm wrestling with Pucey, beating the piss out of Oliver Wood at darts, being loud and obnoxious and mindless, and now that he was back home, and it was quiet, he didn’t think he wanted to think about Malfoy, and what he’d been wearing, and how it made him feel. 

And how it made him feel. 

Harry’s cock was swelling under his pants, and no matter how much he tried to take his mind off it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about the lace biting into Malfoy’s fair skin, about it carving Malfoy’s arse down the middle, about how terrified Malfoy had looked. Bashful, almost. 

Virginal. Like all his bluster, all his arrogance and pride, was all a show, and underneath, he was trembling and embarrassed, and too shy to let others see who he really was. 

At that thought, all the blood rushed from Harry’s head, and he rolled over on his stomach, trapping his cock underneath him so he couldn’t touch it. He would not. He would not wank to Malfoy. 

He would not wank to Malfoy wearing lace panties. 

Black. Black lace panties. Harry’s head swam as he imagined Malfoy going to practice in them, drinking pints with the team at the pub. Sitting in team meetings in the boardroom, with his white oxford shirt and grey trousers, underneath the stiff wool fabric, the soft lace, hidden carefully away. 

Was he hard in them? And if so, how often? Did he walk around hard all the time, his cock straining at the lace, the fabric cutting into his sensitive skin, pressing against it, constraining it… 

Harry’s fantasies had reached a place he couldn’t turn back from, and he ground his dick into the bed. Still refusing to touch himself, he rubbed himself slowly into the mattress, moving his hips from side to side, letting the pleasure pool in his groin as he thought about pulling the lace aside, and Malfoy’s cock springing free, bobbing out from its confines and dripping wet. 

Harry reached down and palmed at his cock, nearly humping the bed clothes as he rubbed himself. Oh god, what would it be like to pull that string aside, and see Malfoy’s hole behind it, pink and pale skin beneath the black fabric, Malfoy turning that delightful color of red, Malfoy saying, “No Potter, don’t look, it’s too…”

Harry came abruptly, pumping his come into the sheets, his muscles spasming and his hips thrusting into his open palm. He cried out as the orgasm twisted out of him, his eyes closed, picturing Malfoy’s blushing face and his long legs, his cock spasming frantically. 

Panting, Harry rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. He felt…. Not shame.  _ Unease _ . Twelve hours ago, Harry had never thought about another man before. Not sexually. And he’d certainly never thought about a man wearing women’s underwear. And he’d  _ certainly _ never thought about Malfoy wearing women’s underwear, and how unbelievably hot it made him. 

But now that he had, Harry only had one question: what was he going to do about it? 


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, Harry’s immediate response to the events of Friday was to go out Saturday to a bar and find a girl to fuck. 

He went with Ron and Seamus, as was his custom on Saturday nights, and waited while they got a bit tipsy at the bar. Harry had suggested they go out to a trendy outdoor muggle bar in Shoreditch built on top of shipping containers. Their usual haunt in Knockturn Alley wouldn’t do for Harry’s purposes. The few times he had picked up girls at that club, pictures of them together had wound up in _Witch Weekly_ , and so Harry had stopped pulling in Wizarding establishments altogether. 

He, Ron and Seamus spent time watching a football match on TV while Ron and Seamus drank a few pints. Harry drank nothing. It was a sad consequence of his Quidditch career that he couldn’t drink more than once or twice a month and expect to perform up to standard, and last night certainly qualified as a cheat day. 

“So, explain this to me again,” Ron said through a mouthful of chips. “If they can’t use broomsticks to get to the ball, why don’t they just drive around on motorbikes? Wouldn’t the game be faster that way? 

Seamus huffed. “If you won’t at least try to understand, then don’t wa- AHHHHHHHHHHHH! TWO BLOODY INCHES SHY.” 

“Maybe we should try watching ice hockey next time, Ron,” Harry said. “The skates make it much faster.” 

“Or you could hook us up with some tickets to a Quidditch match,” Ron suggested. “Don’t the Magpies have free skyboxes available every week for friends of the team?” 

“Yes, Ron, but those are for investors or politicians or celebrities. You know. Important people.” 

Ron stared at him dumbly. “Mate, _you’re_ important. You’re Harry Potter! They can give you skybox tickets.” 

“Ron, I’ll be playing in the matches, not schmoozing in the stands.”

Ron rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the football. “Can’t we watch something else? They hardly ever score in this game.”

Seamus shook his head, and Harry chuckled. They spent the rest of the evening companionably, Ron and Seamus tucking into the chips with gleeful abandon and getting more and more tired from their pints. Harry asked after Hermione, and Ron told him there was nothing much to say except that she was chronically exhausted. She was looking after her parents, who were recovering from the not inconsiderable spell damage she’d left them with in her attempts to protect them from Voldemort, and attending law school part time while she clerked for the Wizengamot. After four rounds, it was late evening and they were ready to take off. 

“See you soon, Harry,” Ron said as he slapped him on the back in a friendly hug. “Unless you want to stay in the guest room? Hermione won’t mind, she was asleep before I left. Law school is really taking it out of her. She’d love to see you at breakfast though.” 

“No thanks,” Harry said. “I think I’ll just walk to an apparition point and go back home to Scotland. We have an early practice tomorrow.” That was a lie, but Harry was intent on spending at least an hour here in Shoreditch before he went home, and he didn’t want Ron and Seamus knowing about it. 

Harry smiled at them as they left. As soon as their backs were through the door, Harry turned around and made eye contact with the three girls who had been watching him while they thought he wasn’t paying attention. A man had been watching him too, which Harry found newly interesting. He considered for a moment going home with him instead. He was tall and had a nice body, but Harry realized that the likelihood of him wearing the kind of attire he was hoping to see tonight was slim to none. 

Instead, Harry went up to the bored looking blonde girl with the short skirt and offered to buy her a drink. 

\-------------------------

  
  


Harry woke up in his own bed the next morning, alone. He’d spent a few hours at Emily’s and then shown himself the door. 

The sun cut a clear shaft through the window slats onto Harry’s face, and he blinked as he came back into consciousness. Last night had been. Well. 

He and Emily had talked for all of thirty minutes before it became abundantly clear that they were both after the same thing, and they left the bar to kiss and fool around a bit in the alleyway. She led him back to her flat, and within five minutes Harry was face to face with just what he was looking for. 

She was wearing lace panties. _Jackpot_ , he thought to himself, even though they weren’t black. They were hot pink, a small disappointment quickly overcome once Harry realized they had the same thong shape he’d seen on Malfoy the night before. 

Sparing no time, Harry had immediately sealed his mouth onto the crotch of them and started tonguing at the rough lace. The texture of it, the ridges of the thread pulled tight over the girl’s smooth skin, made him want to drool all over her. And so he did. She was panting and bucking into his mouth, making quiet desperate noises until Harry pulled the underwear aside and entered her, and then she cried out, high and clear, while he drove his cock into her slowly, savoring the feeling of the lace on his shaft. 

Harry didn’t like the bragging that sometimes went on between mates, and he’d never been one to boast about his own performance, but he tried to see to it that he came after his partner was satisfied. But now, fucking into her slow and hard, the lace rubbing against his foreskin as he stroked out of her, he couldn’t help himself, and he came hard after two minutes inside her. 

It was almost time for breakfast, and Harry ought to eat before he went to his weekend conditioning session, but he lay in bed for a few minutes more. Last night had been his attempt to get what he now thought of as _The Malfoy Incident_ out of his system by blowing off some steam. He could see now that attempt was misguided.

Pulling at the bar had made things worse, not better. For one thing, he hardly knew Emily, and though she had been wearing panties, Harry had fucked many (well… several) women wearing panties before. That wasn’t what was really at the root of all this, then, was it? 

No, it was _Malfoy_ wearing the panties. Malfoy, who treated all his friends like shit, who’d broken his nose, who _my father_ ed his way out of every problem in life (barring more recent problems, naturally), who was too good to have more than one pint with the team, who showed up to team meetings in bloody Oxford shirts with wool pants. _That_ man was secretly dressed in women’s underwear. 

It bothered Harry in a way he couldn’t articulate, and even though he’d recently had sex, and was trying his best not to think about the situation sexually, he couldn’t puzzle out why he found it so interesting. 

The reality was, he did find it interesting. And his first plan of action, finding a girl to roll around with, didn’t solve anything for him. He was going to have to find something else to do. 

\--------------------------

_I am going to stab my eyeballs out with this biro,_ Harry thought to himself. 

The Monday morning team meeting had gone on for two hours already, and most of the team members were fidgeting in their chairs or engaging in the practiced art of yawning with one’s mouth closed. Clarence Nelson, the team owner, had droned on interminably about the team’s finances, marketing opportunities, and future sponsorship obligations, none of which Harry cared a whit about. He turned up whenever the team administrative assistant told him to turn up, and smiled for the cameras that pointed his direction, and let the press secretary release statements for him about this or that charitable endeavor. 

None of this was at all interesting to any of the other team members either, except for Malfoy, who was taking notes on a pad of legal paper in a languid script. 

Harry glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye from time to time. Malfoy was wearing khaki pants today with a blue sweater over a grey buttoned shirt. The highest button was done up. On the surface, he looked perfectly ironed and aristocratic and stuffy, his long hair done up in a top knot, tied so tight it was pulling a bit at his eyebrows. 

Harry wondered what he had on under his khaki pants. Were they the same as on Friday? Or were panties a weekend thing for Malfoy? Maybe something he had been planning to wear to a… a club. Of some sort. 

Harry had no experience with such places, but the thought of it made his cock fatten a little bit in his track pants. He shifted his feet so his legs were a bit further apart. All sorts of things could happen at those clubs, and as Harry thought about them, he continued to skate his eyes to the corner of the room, where Draco was sitting just across the big oak table. 

Malfoy’s’s skin turned a bit pink. Not a full blush, but enough for Harry to notice, and after a minute or two, Malfoy put his quill down and clasped his hands in front of himself, his gaze fixed on Nelson, resolutely not looking in Harry’s direction. 

_He knows_ , Harry thought. _He knows I’ve seen them, and he knows I’m thinking about them now_. People could always read Harry’s body language somehow, and Malfoy must be on alert for any sign of Harry acting strangely, after how terrified he had been in the locker room. He knew he should stop looking, should put his feet back together and will his dick to relax, but between the sheer boredom of the meeting and the way the faint blush was now reaching the tops of Draco’s ears, Harry was driven to distraction. 

Gone were his musings from the morning about _why_ exactly he found Malfoy’s clothing so fascinating, and all he could think about was what he was going to do when they were all dismissed. His options. 

Sirius would have been delighted. He hated the Malfoys, Harry remembered fondly, and would have seen this as a prime opportunity to publicly humiliate his distant cousin. _Take them off his kit when he’s in the shower after practice. Hang them up on his locker. Charm the back of his jersey to say something rude about what a poof he is._

The fifteen year old Harry, still mad about Draco’s involvement with Dolores Umbridge, would have done it in a heartbeat. 

But Harry wasn’t fifteen, and Malfoy wasn’t fifteen, and Malfoy’s mother had saved his life, and when Harry remembered that he felt sad that Sirius was a bully all over again, even to people who maybe deserved it. 

Ron would tell him to do nothing. For now. To keep the information to himself until he needed it later, an ace up his sleeve, in case Malfoy ever fucked with him or stood in his way, as he undoubtedly would. Sometime. But Ron was gifted at strategy in a way that Harry lacked the self control to ever act upon. 

Hermione would tell him to ignore it. In fairness, Harry knew that this was the rational course of action. _It’s not anything to do with you, and Malfoy has a right to wear whatever he’d like without you harassing him_ . Her voice in his head was the unwelcome tone of reason, now as ever. _And he’s vulnerable, Harry. It’s not fair to say anything to him about it. The world is hostile to him, and you’ve got far too much power to tease him about it, or proposition him. How could he stand up to you? How could he say no?_

Hermione was his own unwelcome conscience, too. _Bugger_. Harry couldn’t possibly do anything about this, could he? He knew he wasn’t going to tease him about it, wasn’t going to bully him, but could he, in all fairness, go to him as an equal and ask him to… Harry wasn’t quite sure what he was going to ask him to do with him, but his cock assured him it was something prurient. 

Could he ask such a thing of Malfoy? Was Malfoy even gay? And if so, was he interested in Harry? And if he was interested in Harry, was it fair for Harry, with their inequalities of status, and the life debt Malfoy owed him, to ask Malfoy to…

There were too many unknowns here for Harry to rationalize, to understand. So when the meeting was dismissed, and they all rose to get to the pitch for practice, Harry decided to stop thinking about all of it, take his own counsel, and do what came naturally. 

\----------------------------

The other players were done changing into their scrimmage gear. Harry was interested to note that Malfoy changed in a shower stall, by himself, so that nobody else could see him. _Had he always done that?_ No matter. 

Harry pretended to walk out of the locker room with all the others, but instead waited at the end of the lockers, behind them, so that as Malfoy finally headed out towards the door, Harry threw out an arm to stop him. 

“Malfoy.” 

Malfoy looked at him, clearly trying to master the shade his face was turning, and failing. “Potter.” His voice was steady though, and clear. 

Harry’s plans hadn’t taken him past this point, and he was now firmly on his back foot. “I thought we might have a chat.” 

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Did you.” It wasn’t a question. 

Harry realized Malfoy wasn’t going to help him. He was going to have to do…. whatever it was he was doing. This. On his own. 

“Yes. I saw you get into the shower yesterday.” He paused for a beat. Malfoy’s eyes were the deepest shade of grey. “I saw what you had on.” 

Malfoy said nothing whatsoever. _Are you a Gryffindor or aren’t you?_ Harry thought. _Just come out with it, for fuck’s sake_. But he couldn’t form the words. Malfoy was still looking at him with his perfectly grey eyes, his face pink, and his heart thudding under Harry’s hand, which was still grabbing his jersey. 

One minute, Harry was trying to think what to say next, and the next, he’d pushed Malfoy up against the lockers. For a split second, Malfoy stiffened like he was sure he was going to be attacked, but then Harry put his mouth on the crook between Malfoy’s neck and _sucked_ , and ran his lips up and down the pale column of it, burning it with his stubble. 

Malfoy’s muscles all relaxed and lit up at the same time. He slid down the lockers a bit, like he was weak in the knees, and let out a soft “oh”. Somehow Harry hadn’t expected him to sound like that; he expected Malfoy to sound sharp and arrogant, but instead he sounded a bit helpless, like Harry’s mouth was too much for him, like Harry’s hand…

With a start, Harry realized that while his left hand was still gripping Malfoy’s jersey to hold him in place, his right hand had wandered to Malfoy’s lycra athletic shorts, and was rubbing at the hard cock it found underneath them. Not rubbing. Massaging. He was gripping it, turning it over in his fingers, feeling for something underneath the smooth polyester of Malfoy’s Quidditch gear. 

It was there. He was wearing them. Again. Harry pulled off Malfoy’s neck, nearly panting with want, and Malfoy gasped. Harry’s right hand grabbed the shorts and shoved them down. He and Malfoy, together, stared downward. 

They were white this time. Malfoy reached down with a free hand, pulling up his jersey as they both gazed downward, almost like he wanted Harry to see them, and that plus the sight of his cock straining against the fabric, wetting it a bit on the front with precum, was all Harry needed to close the distance again and press his cock against whatever was in front of it. 

He shoved his own shorts down as well, so he could feel the lace on his foreskin as he rutted erratically against Malfoy’s hard prick. Malfoy was making low noises that sounded like he was enjoying what Harry was doing, but his eyes were looking away, and he was still blushing like he was terribly embarrassed. 

“Like that, do you Malfoy?” Harry asked him breathlessly. “Are you going to come from this?” 

Malfoy turned his face away to look back at the showers. “Yes,” he said in a low tone, his voice catching with an involuntary groan. Harry rubbed his cock even harder up against him, slower now, more deliberate. 

“I’m going to watch you come,” Harry told him, and as he did, Malfoy’s dick spasmed and spit cum out over the top of the lace panties, the fluid dribbling down the front. Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut and _groaned_. 

That was enough for Harry. His overstimulated dick followed with cum of its own, and Harry put his hand around it, pumping the mess onto the front of Malfoy’s white knickers, which were dirtied and torn a bit from the rough treatment. 

Harry rested his head on the wooden lockers, just above Malfoy’s shoulder, breathing hard. Malfoy wouldn’t look at him; he seemed lost in his own world, taking shuddering breaths and keeping his head pointed at the shower. Harry grabbed his chin, pointing his face towards his own, and Malfoy opened his eyes. 

“Don’t clean yourself up,” Harry told him, shocked at the tone of command in his voice. “Stay dirty for the rest of practice.” 

Draco stared hard at him for a moment. Now that the fervor of their coupling had passed, Harry was sure Draco would curse him, or hit him, or both, for what he was asking. But Draco tucked his chin down into the barest of nods. 

Harry picked up his broom and went out onto the pitch.


	3. Chapter 3

Malfoy played beautifully in practice. 

Harry had never paid much attention to the form of Malfoy’s flying before. In their past games at school he’d been trying to best him, or goad him, or thinking hard about whether it was worth it to beat the piss out of him. At the scrimmages these few months, Harry had ignored him. But now. 

Now. 

Harry knew he’d made a right mess of Malfoy, and that he was still covered in it. And so he watched him, for the first time, and for the first time, Harry noticed that he flew beautifully. He was graceful. He could dodge, and flip, and skate past the beaters; he was powerful and fast and aggressive. 

And he was beautiful. The jet black of the Magpie’s uniform set off his pale skin superbly, so that his skin and his bright blond hair seemed to glow. The topknot on his head (which Harry realized was fairly large - Malfoy must have grown out his hair a considerable length) had come loose around his temples, framing his angular face with wisps of hair that blew about in the strong wind. 

Instead of looking for the snitch, Harry spent most of the scrimmage coming to the realization that what he thought was a quick hump before the game might have been more than he bargained for. It was only after their reserve seeker made a beeline for the post behind Harry that he got his wits back and managed to (just barely) grab the snitch by doing a neat backflip and catching it with his left hand. 

How Malfoy had managed to play as well as he had, and under such circumstances, Harry would never know. He’d scored ninety points single handedly for the reserve team, and Adrian Pucey looked murderous as they came off the field. 

His thoughts disjointed, Harry cast a quick scourgify on himself in the locker room instead of taking a shower and changed into clean clothes. He left before Malfoy could emerge from the showers, and went home to eat instead of seating in the team mess hall. 

Harry opened his pantry and sighed in disappointment at the smoothies that had been prepared for him by the team chef. They were all on a strict diet, and Harry knew it was part of his paycheck to be fit and healthy, but flax seed, yogurt and spinach whizzed up in a blender wasn’t his idea of a satisfying meal. 

He sat on the cushion on the windowsill in his breakfast nook, and watched the mist roll in from the seafront. When he’d rented his flat, he’d been sure that he wanted a cozy cottage type place, maybe upstairs from a pub, but when he’d told the estate agent what his budget was, she took him straight to the newest condos on the waterfront. They were modern, and had all the wizarding bells and whistles, and the shower dumped nearly a gallon of water on him every minute from five different directions.

Finishing his smoothie, Harry headed there now, peeling off his clothes and leaving them trailing behind him. He turned the water up to the highest pressure setting and stood dumbly in the spray, staring at the floor. 

This… thing. Whatever it was. With Malfoy. It had to stop. Rather, Harry had to stop. All the thoughts he’d had before, when his cock wasn’t doing the thinking for him, about how it was wrong to approach Malfoy, came rushing back. 

Malfoy had just left his probationary period. His membership on the team was precarious. If he played in matches, would the fans accept him? Harry’s approval or disapproval of his presence could make or break his position. 

Harry didn’t know anything about Malfoy’s finances, but he did know they weren’t what they were before. Like most landed gentry, the Malfoy family income had come from the agricultural leases on their property, and the Manor and all of its lands (along with the Lestrange, Crabbe, and various other estates) had been auctioned and sold to pay reparations to the widows and orphans of the Death Eaters. Reparations that Harry himself had received, having lost his parents and his godfather to Voldemort, and to Malfoy’s close relative. His vaults had swollen as a result of the war and his lucrative contract with the Magpies, and Malfoy’s had been greatly diminished. 

If Malfoy was offended at Harry’s advances, he had no recourse. If he complained to Harry, Harry might threaten to reveal his secret. If he took it to the team manager and complained, he would know that Harry was of greater value to the team, and he might not be listened to. If he took it to the press, he would be pilloried. 

As he really considered this, Harry was stung by guilt. He wanted to go to Malfoy this minute and tell him that Harry would keep his secret, that he had nothing to be afraid of, and that Harry would leave him well enough alone, if that’s what he wanted. 

But what reason would Malfoy have to believe him? All through school, they’d antagonized each other, and made each other’s lives hell. Harry had testified against Malfoy’s father. What if Harry went to apologize, and Malfoy thought he was pressuring him, or bothering him, or threatening him just by bringing up the possibility of outing him? 

Harry’s head swam as he considered all the angles that he’d well and truly cocked up. They were coworkers, for fuck’s sake. He decided to forget today had ever happened, and return to ignoring Malfoy’s existence. 

\------------------------

Harry studiously ignored Malfoy the next several conditioning sessions, and was congratulating himself on his self control, when he realized that Malfoy was becoming angry. 

Enraged, really.

Tuesday morning, Harry walked into the mess hall, and he could see Malfoy’s shoulders perk up a bit, like he was hopeful, and Harry stared right through him and went to sit at Oliver Wood’s table. Harry made a point of laughing loud at Oliver’s jokes, as if nothing untoward had happened. He hoped that would set Malfoy at ease, like things were back to normal, but instead Malfoy coolly left his own table, where he had been eating alone, and walked out the door with a straight back. 

Thinking maybe Malfoy was still worried about Harry blackmailing him, or getting him fired, or whatever, Harry kept it up, acting boisterous and cheeky during their agility exercises that morning. 

By Thursday afternoon, Harry had come to the realization that Malfoy was in a fit of pique when he slammed the door leaving the boardroom after their last preseason meeting. He reminded himself of his pangs of conscience on Monday, his guilt over cornering Malfoy; he told himself he was doing the right thing. 

But underneath that was a voice whispering that he wasn’t ignoring Malfoy because it was the noble course of action. 

He was ignoring Malfoy because he wanted to humiliate him, a little. 

Because if Malfoy wanted anything more from Harry, Harry wanted to see him crawl. To have to ask for it. If Harry was honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind seeing Malfoy have to beg for it. 

And that insight into his psyche, that he might like to dominate Malfoy, sexually. That was disturbing. That was something Voldemort wanted. Lucius. Bellatrix. Dudley. That will to power. That wasn’t a part of Harry. 

At least, it wasn’t a part of himself that he’d previously acknowledged. And now he had to acknowledge it, and think back to all the times that he’d really, really wanted to dominate Malfoy in the past. Maybe that was more than hating him. Maybe he took pleasure in it, and he’d been so caught up fighting evil he hadn’t noticed. 

Saturday was bonfire night, and the whole team gathered on the Quidditch pitch, with all the employees from the office, the coaching staff, and the kitchens, to build a giant bonfire in the middle of the grass and roast potatoes and light fireworks. All the quidditch players were given a strict limit of a beer apiece by the head coach, but Harry was wound up so tight that he spelled his bottle to refill a couple of times just to take the edge off. By ten o’clock, most people were filtering off the field and back home, and a few of the players and staff had spread out on the field on blankets, watching the bonfire light up the crisp November evening. 

Harry had set up a blanket and a warming charm on the edge of the field, by the goal posts, and was just about to doze off from the influence of the beers, when someone spoke from behind him. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

Harry startled. Malfoy was standing next to his blanket. He was dressed in robes, all black, and sealed down the middle with a row of buttons that reached high up on his neck. And he was looking at Harry, expectantly. 

Realizing he’d been asked a question, Harry said coolly, “If you’d like.” 

Harry could tell Malfoy wanted to roll his eyes, but didn’t. Instead, he sucked his teeth and clucked with displeasure as he sat cross legged next to Harry on the blanket. He let one of his knees touch Harry’s thigh, just barely, and then pulled away. Harry kept watching the fire, and said nothing. 

Malfoy finally caved. “You’re a total prat, Potter, and I don’t know why I came over here.” He didn’t get up to leave. 

Harry smirked and let go of everything he’d been worried about. Malfoy didn’t want to be left alone. Malfoy had come over to this blanket, to huff at Harry like a teenager, and he was turning red again, just on the tops of his ears. “Tell me why I’m a prat, Malfoy.”

“You know.”

“I really don’t. Tell me.” Harry let the note of command slip back into his voice. 

Malfoy looked like he was trying to work something out of his mouth, but his tongue wasn’t cooperating. He opened and shut his mouth twice, before he finally said, “You came all over me, and told me to go to practice like that, and then you’ve ignored me all week like it was nothing. Like that was something you do all the time.” 

“What if it is?”

Malfoy looked at him like he was stupid. “Potter.” 

Harry conceded the point with a shrug. He and Malfoy lapsed into silence again. Minutes passed. The others on the field were singing songs and throwing conjured wood onto the fire. Harry had no idea where this conversation was going next, if it was going anywhere at all, and so he said nothing. But Malfoy was doing that thing with his mouth again, opening it and then shutting it, like he wanted to say something and thought better of it. 

Finally, he spoke. “I want to do it again.”

“Do what? Have sex?” 

“No. Yes. I mean, it doesn’t matter if we have sex. It’s not important. Well, it is. But not as important as the other stuff.”

“Er, Malfoy, you’re going to have to be more specific.” Harry had no idea where Malfoy was going with this.

“I…..” Malfoy stopped, and now his whole face was red, and he’d pulled his knees up to his chest. “I want you to humiliate me again. Like you did on Monday. But in a different way. Ways. All sorts of ways.” He was breathing fast now, and he wasn’t looking at Harry. He was talking to his knees, like Harry wasn’t there. “I want you to touch me, but not the normal way. I want you to tell me what to do. To treat me like…. Like you’re better than me. To embarrass me.”

Harry was gobsmacked. Malfoy was into. He was into. Harry didn’t know the word for what Malfoy was into. Seamus would know the word. He would ask him later. “Why are you asking me to do this?”

Malfoy finally turned his head and looked at him, and quirked a smile. “Because you saw me. In. You know.”

“Your knickers.”

Malfoy buried his head back into his knees. “Yes.” 

“And I liked it.” 

At this, Malfoy looked up abruptly in the direction of the fire. “You did.” He looked like he had more he wanted to say. His jaw was working, but whatever it was he wanted to tell Harry, he couldn’t quite get out of himself. 

They didn’t have much more to say to each other. Harry didn’t know if there was anything else he could say, but Malfoy stayed next to him, and he stretched his legs out so their feet were touching. 

“Come back with me to my flat.” 

Malfoy nodded. “Yes.” 

\-------------------------

By the time they got back to the flat, Harry’s cock had swollen painfully in his trousers and was battering up against the zipper in an enthusiastic bid for freedom. Once the door was closed, Harry turned toward Draco in the foyer and shoved his pants off. Draco was looking up, at the light fixture, and then around at the wide expanse of the great room, and then down, at the marble tile floors. 

Harry took several steps towards him, pulling off his rugby shirt as he moved. Once it was over his head, he caught Draco staring at his well-muscled stomach.

Harry was nearly blind with lust himself, and something else inside him took over. Draco looked so small, standing there in the great empty hallway, with skin nearly as white as the marble on the floor. He looked like he needed direction. 

“Take off your robes and sit on the couch.”

Malfoy complied immediately, methodically undoing every button on his robes, starting from the neck and working his way downward. By the time he got down to his groin, Harry could see that the black lace had made a reappearance, and he watched as Malfoy slowly revealed himself to him, inch by inch. Malfoy shuddered as he shrugged off the robes, folded them neatly on the circular table in the entryway, and walked over to the couch, his erect penis straining at the fabric, his testicles falling out the sides of it. 

Harry followed him over, and when Malfoy sat on the couch, he took a fistful of his hair in his right hand and bent his neck back so he would have been looking upwards into Harry’s face, if his eyes were open.

“Malfoy. Will you look at me?” 

Malfoy let out a ragged breath and opened his eyes. “Yes.”

Harry tugged at his hair. “Yes, sir.”

At this, Malfoy looked so craven with want that his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. “Yes, sir.” 

“Tell me what you want, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy’s eyes flew to Harry’s, and he looked for a moment as if he couldn’t speak, couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t possibly tell Harry all the things he wanted. “I want to suck your cock, sir,” he finally managed. 

Harry felt faint as all the blood rushed out of his head. He tightened his grip on Malfoy’s hair. He thought back to earlier this week, when he had imagined Malfoy begging. “Do you really think you deserve to suck my cock?” 

Malfoy’s breathing was hitched and rapid now. “Please, sir. Please let me suck it.” He was nearly frantic, but he didn’t move to touch Harry. “Give me permission. I’ll be so good. Please.” 

Please. Harry could hardly manage to process how delicious that sounded. He filed it away for later examination. “Are you going to take the whole thing?”

Malfoy looked at Harry’s length with trepidation and arousal. “Yes. I will. Potter. Please.” 

Harry thumbed his cock so it pointed towards Malfoy’s face. “Open up, then.” 

Malfoy complied, and shut his eyes. Harry pulled his hair again. “No. Eyes open.” He pushed his cock past Malfoy’s open lips, and into the hot wet chasm of his mouth. Malfoy hummed with delight and humiliation as Harry pulled his hair again to get his head into the right position. It was so warm, and Malfoy’s tongue was fast against the underside of him, and Malfoy was sucking on him so hard that Harry wanted to shove the rest of himself right down his throat, and so he did. 

Malfoy was ready for him, and swallowed him down. Harry pulled back out and shoved in again, pulling Malfoy’s hair even harder so that he cried out a bit around his cock. That spurred Harry on even more, and he fucked into his face faster now, with abandon, savoring Malfoy’s teeth scraping against him gently as Malfoy lost control over where his lips were. 

Malfoy couldn’t manage to suck him anymore; Harry was moving too fast, and all of Malfoy’s concentration was going to not gagging. His eyes were leaking tears with the effort. Harry fucked his mouth over and over, first quickly, then slower as his orgasm built and he wanted to hold off. Malfoy was palming himself through his lace underwear, pressing down on himself with a flat, open palm and working himself from side to side. He had his legs spread open, and his balls were pulled up tight. 

Harry’s balls were pulled up tight, too, and tingling. Harry pulled out of Malfoy’s mouth and fisted himself, one, two, four pumps, until he came in great stripes all over his face, painting his nose and his chin and spilling over his forehead. When he was done, he breathed deeply and held Draco’s face against his groin, smearing the cum around a bit, and slowly came back to himself. He looked down. 

Draco was crying. Two fat tears were streaking through the mess on his face, which bore an expression that was placid and far away. 

Harry let go of Draco’s hair and went to the counter to fetch some tissues. He wiped himself off and threw away the tissues in the bin. 

He turned back to Draco. He was still sitting on the couch, watching Harry, and one tear dropped off his chin. 

Harry plucked two more tissues out of the box. He sat next to Draco, and held the tissues out. Instead of taking them, Draco turned his face towards Harry’s hand, and Harry wiped him off, gently. He rubbed all the mess off his forehead, and his brows. He rubbed everything off his nose and chin, the cum and the drool that had leaked out around Harry’s cock. The second tissue Harry used to wipe off Draco’s cheeks, drying the tracks the tears had made on his skin. Draco’s eyelids fluttered closed, and Harry wiped the tears off his lashes, too. 

“Go to the bedroom and lie down.” Harry said. The note of command was still in his voice, but it was softer now. 

“Yes.” Draco said. 

He went.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer/Trigger warning: There's some Kentucky bashing in here, but it's Draco's fault. Kentucky makes great whiskey; in my head canon, Draco only drinks Scotch.

Chapter 4

It was match day, and Harry couldn’t have been happier. 

Walking out onto the field, he got the biggest cheer out of all the players. Even the Arrows fans cheered him. 

He hadn’t managed box tickets for his friends, but they were there at midfield, all dressed in black, Luna wearing a giant headdress shaped like a Magpie. Hermione, Ron, and George all had black and white scarves courtesy of Molly, and Seamus and Dean had turned up, yelling and setting off noisemakers George had sold them before the game. 

He pushed off the ground on his broom, and it was like the first time all over again. The uncomplicated joy of it. All Harry had to do was catch the snitch, and if he didn’t, no one died, no families were destroyed, no cases were ruined for the auror team. The other seeker was fast, but he was too big and bulky, and Harry easily outmaneuvered him to it forty minutes into the game. 

Harry was allowed to keep the winning snitch, and rather than toss it to a fan in the stands, he flew over to Luna and handed it to her. She was so happy that she nearly knocked him off his broom hugging him. 

Everyone came back to Harry’s flat after the match, and they had a party. Oliver Wood turned up with Angelina Johnson, who spent the whole night cuddling with George next to Harry’s indoor fire pit. Neville had bought tickets of his own for himself and the girl he’d been dating, Hannah Abbott, and they brought butterbeer to the flat to share. The night was like what Hogwarts in seventh year should have been, if only Harry had a seventh year, if only the rest of them had seventh year without the Carrows. It felt good. 

The whole night, Harry tried to work up the courage to ask Seamus privately about what exactly Draco was into, without saying Draco’s name, but he never managed it, and by the middle of the evening he had become more and more withdrawn as he tried to work out which words to start the conversation. “So, I have this friend….” was too obvious. “Have you ever….” sounded too suggestive. He was sure Ron would have the conversation with him, but then Ron would tell Hermione, and Harry didn’t want Hermione knowing anything about what kinds of things he’d been up to lately. 

He was sitting a bit apart from the group on his favorite recliner, the one spelled to give him a back massage with tiny magical hands, when Luna sat down on the plinth next to him. 

“Hello, Harry,” she said airily. “It was nice of you to invite me. I don’t get invited to parties very often.” 

“I’m glad you’re here, Luna,” Harry said, fondly. “It’s great to see everyone from school again. I’ve missed us being all together.” 

Luna frowned. “We’re not all together though, are we?” Luna asked. “Nobody invited Draco. I bet he gets invited to parties even less than I do.”

Harry’s conscience smarted again. Bugger. He should have invited Malfoy. He didn’t even think of it. 

“You don’t really think he would have wanted to come, would he? I mean, none of us were friendly with him in school, and that’s an understatement.” 

“Does that matter anymore, after everything? He’s on your team now. I bet you see each other all the time. And he cheered so hard for you when you caught the snitch. He seemed really happy for you, like a friend would be.” 

_ Shit _ . Harry thought.  _ He’s going to think I excluded him on purpose _ ,  _ just to be cruel _ . And even though Malfoy had asked Harry to treat him that way on Bonfire night, Harry wasn’t sure whether that treatment extended beyond having sex with each other. He didn’t know what Draco wanted at all because they hadn’t talked about it. 

He was so bad at this. Relationships. He looked over at Ron and Hermione, whispering to each other next to the fire, Ron stealing kisses and Hermione’s cheeks turning rosy. Hermione knew everything about feelings, and empathy. She had known what Cho was feeling fifth year without even speaking to her. And Ron. Ron had never been great with girls. But he loved Hermione, he worshipped her, because she was smarter than him, and… and gooder than him, and really, truth be told, way out of his league. And he showed her that, every day, every time Harry saw them together, Ron and Hermione knew what the other one needed, and gave it to each other, without reservation. 

Harry had never had that. He’d made a mess of things with Ginny, and he’d tried to see other girls, but he could never give them his heart the way he was meant to. And now, he was involved with Malfoy, in a way he couldn’t possibly begin to understand. He didn’t know how to explain his own motivations, the way he had been pulling Malfoy’s hair and humiliating him, and he certainly couldn’t figure out what Malfoy was feeling. 

“Luna. Do you think it’s too late to invite him?”

\--------------------------

Fifteen minutes later, Malfoy stepped out of the floo. He looked petrified, and he was shifting slightly from one foot to the next, but he was here, in Harry’s flat, holding a bottle of whiskey. 

Luna broke the tension. “Cousin,” she said, warmly, and got up to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

“Luna,” Malfoy replied. He walked over to Harry, stiffly handed him the bottle of whiskey, and then stood awkwardly, looking around the room. 

“Here,” Harry said, gesturing to his chair. “Sit here and chat with Luna for a bit while I pour some of this. Er, it looks excellent, thank you.” 

Malfoy stared at him. “Potter, it’s cheap whiskey I picked up at the corner store. It’s from  _ Kentucky _ .” Harry wasn’t sure where that was, or why exactly Kentucky was such a terrible place to buy whiskey, but he shrugged and went to pour himself a glass anyway. He poured one for Ron as well, and went to sit next to him and Hermione. 

“What’s Malfoy doing here?” Ron asked him. 

Hermione scowled at him. “Ron, this is Harry’s flat, and he can invite whomever he likes.” She turned to Harry. “What  _ is  _ Malfoy doing here, Harry?” 

Harry got the feeling she was asking an entirely different question than Ron was. “Luna made me feel bad that I didn’t invite him.” It wasn’t a lie. “How are your parents?” 

Hermione’s face dropped, and Harry felt a bit guilty for changing the subject to them. “They’re better. They’ve remembered dental school, and they’re looking to set their practices back up here in the U.K. They’ve started remembering that they  _ have _ a daughter, which is progress. They just don’t remember who their daughter is yet.”

Ron gave her a kiss on the cheek. “She’s doing so well with them, Harry. She’s so patient. They’ll get it eventually, won’t they? And then you’ll be one big happy family again.” 

Hermione smiled at him, and Harry’s heart broke a little, just watching them. “Ooh, I’ve just forgotten, I mean to talk to Dean about his case work at the ministry,” Hermione said, and she walked into the kitchen to speak with him. 

“Always working, that one,” Ron said, admiringly. He turned to Harry, quite serious. “Mate, I can’t keep it in any longer. I have to tell someone, or I’m going to explode.” Ron looked around to see that nobody else was watching, and then pulled a ring out of his pocket. It had a diamond in it the size of a small fingernail, and it was set between two red rubies. Harry’s jaw dropped, and Ron carefully hid it away again. 

“Don’t say anything. She’ll know. You know what she’s like. I had to show you, though.”

In as normal a voice as he could muster, Harry said, “When are you going to ask her?”

Ron sighed. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Her parents are all…. Not right. Still. And she’s beside herself trying to fix them. I can’t ask her to make a family with me until her family… I mean, I want to go to her dad, for permission. Do it properly. And I can’t do that, as it stands.” 

“Do you think they’ll get any better?” 

“Oh yeah. They’ve already gotten loads better! Spell damage like this, it’s reversible, it just takes a lot of time to rebuild all the… norons? Neuroms? You’d have to ask Hermione about it, she’s read a book.”

“I’m sure she’s read several of them.”

“She has, at that.” Ron smiled. “Anyway. You’ll be my best man, when we do, right? If she says yes.”

“Ron.” Harry looked at him, willing himself not to tear up. “She will.” 

\---------------------

Malfoy managed to find an excuse to be the last person in Harry’s flat at the end of the night. Harry thought he might have hid in the hall bathroom so nobody would notice. Typical. 

After everyone else had left, Malfoy made a show of gathering up his jacket, saying a quick, “Thanks for the evening Potter, it’s been swell” without looking at him, and made for the floo.

Harry grabbed him around the collar. “Don’t be such a coward, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy turned back towards him. “And what if I stay? Are you going to ignore me the second half of the night, like you did the first?”

“Don’t be difficult. What was I supposed to do, bend you over the couch in front of all my friends?”

Malfoy swallowed heavily. 

“Oh come on. You can’t be serious, Malfoy.”

“Some indication that you had an interest in my presence here would have been appreciated.” 

Harry threw up his hands, frustrated. He’d spent the past weeks not knowing what on earth Malfoy wanted from him, and he lacked the capacity to understand what was happening between them. He was in over his head, in the thick of something he didn’t even have the vocabulary to describe, and Malfoy was acting like he should have all the answers. He didn’t know what else to do, so he defaulted to honesty. 

“Malfoy, I don’t know what you want me to say. One day, you’re asking me to treat you like garbage, and the next you’re acting like I should have sent you an engraved invitation over here. I can’t understand what you want.” Harry was starting to get worked up, and the anger spilled into his voice. “This is too fucked up. I’m too fucked up.” He was nearly yelling. 

“You know what I want, Potter.” 

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes. You do. You’ve always known what I want. You’ve always given it to me.” 

“Malfoy, I don’t know what anyone wants. I’m terrible at this. You need to spell it out for me, now, or you can leave.” 

Malfoy paused, and the words he’d been trying to say to Harry, trapped in his throat these past few weeks, bubbled up to the surface. “Sub. I want to be your sub.” 

Harry gawped at him, uncomprehending. He wasn’t a virgin. He’d had sex, and in a variety of positions. But he didn’t know what that meant. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“I don’t either," Malfoy said. "I’ve never been someone's sub before.” He blushed and looked away. “I’ve never. I’ve never had sex with someone before. But I think I know what I want from you.” He looked back at Harry now, his pale grey eyes swimming. “I’ve always wanted it from you.” 

Honesty seemed to be working, so Harry kept going. “Malfoy. I’ve never thought about you like this until two weeks ago. I don’t know anything about you.” Malfoy gave Harry a look like Harry had struck him. “It’s not your fault. I don’t know anything about myself. The way I’ve been acting, it’s depraved. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t be treating you like this, but,” Harry took a deep breath, “but I want to treat you like this. It’s fucked up. I’m fucked up.” 

“You’re not fucked up,” Malfoy said in the smallest voice possible. “You’re-”

“Yes, I am fucked up.” Harry said. “My best mate spent the night telling me how he’s going to ask permission from Hermione’s father, to start a normal family, and I spent the night thinking about the last time you were here, how I made you beg me for a face fuck. That is the definition of fucked up, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy perked up a bit. “You spent the night thinking about making me beg?”

“Er. Well. Yes.” 

Malfoy gave him the barest bit of a smile. 

“Then, maybe you could make me beg again.” 

Harry sighed. “I don’t know, Malfoy. If you being my sub means that I need to act like an asshole to you all the time, then I don’t think I’m up for it.” Even as he said this, Harry’s cock lodged a firm and vigorous protest. 

“You don’t have to do that. All the time, I mean. It could just be some of the time. We could do other things.” 

“Like what?” 

“If you’ll come lie down with me, I’ll show you. Sir.”

Harry thought that sounded okay. “Get in the bedroom, Malfoy.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Harry had no idea how to humiliate Malfoy without being an arsehole at the same time, but as his core competency had always been improvisation, he figured he’d come up with something. 

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, looking out of place and like he didn’t quite know what to do next.  _ He’s never been someone’s sub before _ , Harry remembered.  _ He’s never had sex before. He must want me to tell him -  _

“Take off all your clothes, Malfoy. Except whatever you’re wearing under your trousers.” 

Draco nodded and began to take off his clothes, keeping his eyes on Harry and watching for his reactions, a bit shy, but hopeful, like he was hoping he would please Harry. When he came to his trousers, he dropped his gaze to the floor as he lowered them and let Harry see the red silk underneath. They weren’t the thong style this time, Harry noted; more like a bikini bottom, with a light lace trim on the edges. The line of his prick was tenting them, and a bit of wetness stood out on the front. 

Harry remembered having sex with Ginny for the first time, how hard it had been to talk to each other, how difficult to overcome their inhibitions and just say what they wanted or were thinking for fear of being judged. He wanted to please Malfoy ( _ please _ him? Harry filed that thought away for future examination), and Malfoy had asked to be… humiliated? Submissive? He decided getting him to talk was a good place to start. 

“Malfoy. Tell me which part of you needs touching.” 

Draco’s eyes flew back up, his long lashes fluttering a bit while he swallowed a lump in his throat. “My. My dick. That would be nice.” 

Harry looked at him hard. “Are you sure Malfoy? Is that the part of you that feels the dirtiest?” 

Harry walked around him, began to circle him. Malfoy stood stock still, looking forwards and breathing a bit harder. “If we’re going to do this, if you’re going to submit to me, you’re going to tell me the truth. What would you be  _ ashamed _ to have me touch?” As he rounded Malfoy and faced him again, he was pleased to see he’d found his mark: the skin on Malfoy’s chest was flushing, and the redness was creeping up his neck. “Tell me.” 

“My hole. I want you to touch me there.” Draco’s whole face was pink now, right to the tops of his ears, and his prick was harder than ever. Harry thought it must not be very big, maybe five inches, tops, but it was straining at the silk fabric now, and Draco must be having an awful time not touching it himself with how wet it was making his knickers. 

“Ah. Very well, Malfoy. Get on your hands and knees on the bed.” Draco obliged, his back curving and his arse sticking out, the shape of it nearly edible. Harry felt a bit wild with lust, but he could see Draco was enjoying having Harry in control, so he reined it in and continued. “When did you put these on, Malfoy? Have you been wearing them all day?” Draco made a choked sound. “Tell me.” 

“I - I put them on before I came here,” Draco said, a bit breathlessly. 

“Ah. So you were hoping I’d see them.”

“Yes. Sir.” 

Harry’s cock twitched a bit at that. “Do you have any idea what a slut that makes you, Malfoy? You sat here, around all my friends, with a hard-on, for hours, in women’s knickers. Hoping I’d fuck you. Is that what you did?” 

“Yes,” it was becoming difficult for Malfoy to speak, and his mouth was doing the opening and closing again, until he finally was aroused enough to overcome it. “Yes, sir, I did. I’m - I’m a pervert, sir.” 

“You are. I bet you think about doing this all the time.”

“I do, Potter sir.” 

“Are you ready to show me your hole then? How dirty it is?” 

“Please. Please let me show you.” The tone of Draco’s voice was abject as he begged. “Please let me.” 

“I’ll look at it then, Malfoy, and I’ll touch it.” Harry had a stroke of inspiration. “But you are not to come until I tell you that you may.” He’d heard about this before, in a muggle magazine, the summer before sixth year. George had nicked it from a shop. “Understand?”

Draco’s breathing was now truly labored. “Yes, whatever you’d like. Please.”

Harry hooked his index fingers in Draco’s panties and pulled them over the round swell of his arse. He left them stretched around Malfoy’s upper thighs, and then reached in and spread his cheeks apart. 

It was Harry’s turn to be breathless. Draco’s hole was pink and quivering and tight and looked like the warmest thing on the earth. “Merlin, what a filthy little hole you’ve got, Malfoy.” Draco shuddered under his inspection. Harry reached a finger in to stroke it, gently. “It must be hard to walk around, horny all day, with such a slutty arsehole. I bet you’re just dying to have someone fuck it, aren’t you?” 

“Mmmmmfff,” Draco said, his affirmation swallowed by the pillow he’d stuck his head in. 

“Well, I’m not going to fuck it right now, Malfoy. I am going to touch you, though.” 

Draco’s hole puckered with anticipation. Instead of pressing forward with his finger, Harry replaced it with a broad stroke of his tongue, slow and wide, from his bollocks all the way to the top of his crack. 

Malfoy howled into the pillow. Taking that as encouragement, Harry did it again, painting wide stripes with his tongue and crawling the flatness of it across Draco’s hole. “That’s right,” Harry told him. “It’s okay to be dirty, because you’re a whore. That’s what whores are supposed to be.” 

Draco said something that sounded a bit like “Your whore,” but Harry had now lost himself in the act of rimming Draco’s arsehole and gave up talking. He alternated broad licks with more pointed ones, slurping at the edges of it like he was lapping up water, and finally sealing his whole mouth to it, kissing it like he would have kissed Draco on the mouth. 

Draco let out a high pitched noise that Harry thought meant he might be close to climaxing, so he removed his mouth and slapped him hard on his arse cheek, with the flat of his hand. 

Draco pulled his head off the pillow, looking bereft. “I told you, no coming until I say so.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Tell me next time, Malfoy, or I won’t let you come at all.” Harry reached underneath Malfoy’s arse and started playing with the skin of his taint, stretching it and teasing it. He fondled his bollocks with his fingertips, and then took them in hand, rolling them around gently. Draco was starting to groan a bit and lean into his touch, so Harry sucked them into his mouth, nibbling at them first with his lips and then pressing at them with his tongue. At the same time, he whispered a spell, and his fingers slicked up with lube. 

Harry reached above his head to press his middle finger at Draco’s entrance, and swirled it around the outside, covering his hole with the conjured lube. It had a warming enhancement on it, and Harry knew from his own experience that Draco’s arsehole was starting to tingle and flush. He dipped his finger inside Draco’s hole, sucking at him from underneath. 

“Harry. I’m - please let me, I’m so - “

Harry pulled back, releasing Draco’s bollocks and removing his finger. “No. Not yet. Whores like you don’t deserve to come this quickly.” 

Draco groaned in frustration. “Please sir. Whatever you’d like, I’ll do it. Let me come, please.” 

Harry kept his face stoic, but he felt like grinning as he had another idea. It might be taking things too far, but Harry’s cock twitched again at the thought of it, so he decided to go with it. 

He shoved Draco’s panties off his legs, and stood back up at the end of the bed. “Come crawl over here, Draco.” Draco turned around obediently and came forward on his hands and knees, looking up at him expectantly.. “That’s right. Good boy.”

Draco looked up at Harry so wantonly that Harry was worried he might come just from the spare bit of praise he’d thrown his direction. Interesting. “Do you know how filthy you’ve made these panties Malfoy?” He held them out. “They’re all covered in your precome. And you’ve gotten lube all over them from rubbing up against my finger.” Harry sighed, as if disappointed.

“I think you need to learn a lesson about making such nice panties so filthy.” He took the red silk and draped it over Draco’s head, so his nose was stuck in the part where his precome had made them wet. Then, Harry tucked the crotch of them into Draco’s mouth. “That’s right, Malfoy. Now, be a good boy -” Malfoy’s eyes were nearly rolling back into his head - “and wait while I come on your face, and then I’ll let you have your orgasm.” 

Harry took himself in hand and began masturbating. His hand was still slick with the lube, and the sight of Draco with panties draped on his face and stuffed in his mouth was nearly overwhelming. Harry couldn’t believe how hot this was making him, seeing Malfoy on his knees, humiliated for him. He stroked himself hard now, nearly at his climax. He’d never felt like this with his other partners, never wanted to control them like this, or embarass them, or dominate them. Something about doing this with Malfoy brought it out in him. It always had. Harry pumped faster, the lube gone now, the friction on his foreskin delicious as he pulled at his with his fist. 

He came. Great gobs of cum shot out of him and onto Malfoy’s knickers, onto his face. Harry closed his eyes and breathed hard as he came back to himself. 

When he opened them, Draco was looking desperate. “On your back now,” Harry said, a bit less sharp than before. Draco laid back. “That’s right. Hold your knees in your hands and let me see you.”

Draco flushed pink again, embarrassed at being told to expose himself. His prick was harder than ever, practically jumping with need. He took his knees and pulled them up to either side of his chest, exposing his arsehole to Harry’s gaze. 

“Keep them spread apart, Malfoy,” Harry said. He bent down and licked at the hole, tentatively once, and then strongly, nosing at his balls. “Has anybody ever let you have an orgasm like this before?” 

“N-no. Sir.” 

Harry wondered what it was costing Malfoy to keep telling him these things, let alone call him “sir” afterwards. He must be eaten alive with humiliation. “I’m going to make you orgasm now.” Something about refusing to use a euphemism made it sound even dirtier. 

He conjured more lube onto his fingers, and slowly plunged two of them into Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy’s mouth made a soundless “oh”, and Harry pressed on, feeling upwards, until Draco gasped and Harry was sure he was touching his prostate. 

“That’s right, Malfoy.” He rubbed his fingers over it, slowly, in a circle, pressing firmly upwards. “Are you coming, baby?” 

Malfoy was coming. He grabbed both his knees hard and leaned into it, his abs spasming as his prick shot come onto his stomach. 

Harry didn’t hold him as he came. He removed his fingers and spelled himself clean. He didn’t clean Malfoy, thinking that he would prefer to be covered in everything for a while yet. 

Once Malfoy had relaxed and put his legs down on the sheets, Harry crawled up to the pillows and reclined, his arms behind his head. 

Draco sat up at the end of the bed, taking deep breaths. The window was shrouded with a curtain, but the street lamp outside let in enough light to silhouette Malfoy’s face. Harry took in his hair, still tied up tight in a knot on top of his head. Little curled strands at his temples fell to his cheekbones, lit up sharp by the back lighting. Draco’s lips were parted as he sucked air in and blew air out, his eyes closed softly in concentration, his long lashes making him look demure. 

Harry’s arms felt strange. Empty. “Draco.” 

He looked up, as if surprised that Harry was still in the room. “I’ll… I’ll just be going then. I can see myself out.” 

“Draco. Don’t be stupid. Come here.” 

Draco hesitated, then lay stiffly on his back on the pillow next to Harry. 

“Prat. Come here, I said.” Harry flipped Malfoy onto his side, and then scooted up close so that they were spooning. Momentarily stunned, Malfoy cautiously relaxed into him, and hummed. 

He smelled like Harry’s come. 

They fell asleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 

The Monday morning team meeting went as good as could possibly be expected.

“Five days? You can’t be serious!” Oliver Wood’s face looked jubilant, despite the early morning hour. 

Clarence Nelson, the team owner, smiled magnanimously. “Five full days, not including the travel to and from the resort. And with a private butler for each of you, from eight in the morning until ten o’clock at night.” 

Harry was beaming, he could feel it on his face. 

“What’s the catch?” asked Adrian Pucey. “Who are we endorsing?”

“You’re endorsing the resort,” Nelson explained. “They’ve just opened a new building for the wizarding community exclusively, and they want a bit of press. There will be a photographer from  _ The Prophet  _ there, as well as one from  _ Witch Weekly _ .” 

“So are we meant to fanny about with our tops off for the cameras?” asked Wood. 

“Well, yes,” said Nelson. “That’s part of the arrangement. We’ll give you a full list of contractual obligations that the team is paid for. You won’t have much practice - just conditioning in the morning and two scrimmages on their Quidditch pitch. The rest of the time you’re meant to do as you please at the resort. We’re not doing a formal photo shoot. The photographers will be taking candid shots of you.” 

Harry was so pleased. He’d never had a proper vacation. The Dursleys had always gone without him, and the Weasleys had just been to Egypt, between first and second year, when he couldn’t go along. For some reason it had never occurred to him to travel abroad. And now, here was a full week in Spain, on a resort, with a private beach house all to himself.

Harry and the others walked out, nearly shoving each other with excitement for the week to come (they left Wednesday). Harry was just beginning to think to himself what he and a certain  _ other _ teammate could get up to in a week at a beach resort, when he noticed that as they’d left, Draco had been kept behind. 

The grey metal door clicked shut, with Harry on one side of it, and Draco on the other. Harry’s heart thudded. He could feel something rising in his chest as he stood waiting for Draco to leave. 

He was in for quite a while, and when he finally opened the door, the expression on his face was sheepish and the picture of disappointment. 

_ Rage _ . That was it, the thing in his chest. It was rage. 

Before he had even thought what he was about to say or do, Harry had grabbed Draco’s wrist and yanked him, protesting, back into the boardroom. 

Nelson stood at the end of the big table, looking over some figures in a file with the business manager. He looked up at Harry, who stood in the doorway, red faced, and clutching Draco’s arm. Draco was trying desperately to pull away, but Harry’s grip was too hard, and he soon gave it up. 

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” 

“You’re not letting Draco go with us.” 

Nelson blinked. 

Draco was frantic. “Potter, it’s fine, we’ve already discussed - “

“No. It’s not fine. Be quiet.”

“Potter, don’t -”

Harry turned toward Draco, and felt the blood in his face grow cold. “Malfoy, don’t you ever-” he drew a breath, “ever, tell me what to do.” 

Draco stilled immediately, the tension on Harry’s grip going slack. Harry turned back toward Nelson. “You’re not letting Draco go with us.” 

Nelson nodded, once. “I’m sorry, Harry. It’s not up to us. The resort… the press… they feel Mr. Malfoy’s presence may be distracting to the press. What with, the ah… the historical issues, at foot. You see.” 

Harry’s anger deflated a bit. Nelson was a good man. He’d hired Draco because he was a good flyer, and he didn’t care about old prejudices. He had an opportunity with this endorsement to make some money and give his team a good time, and he’d taken it. But the unfairness rankled Harry. 

“Well, if they don’t want Malfoy at their resort, I won’t be there either. I can afford to take my own vacations.” 

“Potter, you’re contractually obligated to attend endorsement events. As your boss, I’m requiring your attendance.” 

Harry sighed. “I gave up being an Auror to get away from politics, Nelson. If it’s in Quidditch too, I don’t need to play.” As he said this, the tension against his grip on Draco’s arm rose again. 

“Potter, you are the reason why this team has this opportunity. The press is wild about you, and the resort has paid chiefly for your name to be attached to the story.” 

Harry’s nostrils flared a bit. He’d won. “Then don’t you think,” he said, “that they might reconsider their position on Malfoy’s attendance?”

Nelson smiled, cat-like. “I have every reason to believe they might, now that you’ve put it that way, Mr. Potter.” He turned towards the floo at the back of the room. “I’ll call them straight away. I’m sure they’ll have an answer by morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, and still clutching Draco’s wrist, he turned and left.

\-------------------------

Draco began digging his heels into the floor and trying to escape Harry’s grasp the second they left. 

“What the bloody hell were you thinking, Potter?” He sounded angry. Harry released his hand, as if scalded. 

“What was  _ I  _ thinking? I was thinking you were part of the team, and should be on the trip!” Draco continued to look angry, and Harry felt a surge of anger himself at his ungratefulness. “You should be thanking me!” 

“For what? Getting dragged along to a hotel where I’m not welcome? Where the staff will treat me like garbage, where the press will have a field day splashing me and my bad name across the front page of a tabloid? I should be  _ thanking  _ you?” 

Harry hadn’t thought of it like that. He’d only thought that it was unfair that Draco hadn’t been included, and that he would really like it if- Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking. Draco’s face was turning red, he was blushing, and the rest of the team was somewhere close waiting for the lift - Draco was looking over Harry’s shoulder furtively to see if they could hear. 

“Come here,” Harry said, pulling Draco by the sleeve of his white oxford shirt into a conference room. Checking that no one was there, and charming the door so it locked behind them, he continued, “We can avoid the press. They’ll tell us when they’re coming. They’re not paparazzi, and they won’t be there the whole time.” 

Draco gazed away from Harry, looking small and a bit defeated. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to bother anyone.”

Draco looked so small, so sunk in on himself, that Harry felt sorry for him. No, that wasn’t it. Something like protectiveness surged in him, made him want to build Draco up a bit. “Look, the resort staff don’t care. They won’t even be British wizards. The owners of the hotel don’t really mind either. They’ll just want some good press, and I’ll give it to them. They won’t know you’re there. And the team doesn’t know anything about this. They’ll all be happy to have you along, you know they like you.” That was stretching it a bit. 

Draco looked at him incredulously. “Really, Potter? You think they’ll invite me round to tea?” 

Outside the window, far below, a giant lorry blared its horn at the team, which was now boisterously scampering through the zebra crossing on the way back to the village. “I don’t know about that,” Harry said wryly. “But I promise I’ll choose you first for my beach volleyball team. Assuming I’m the captain.” 

“Assuming.” Draco said. He was sitting on the window sill looking up at Harry, the morning light turning his eyes a gun metal grey. 

“Yes, I promise.” Harry said. There was something still niggling at him. A bit of anger floated on the surface of his thoughts. Something else buried below it. Harry thought he might take the top off that anger, just to see what was underneath. 

“You disobeyed me. In front of Nelson.” 

Draco blinked slowly. 

“I told you to be quiet, and you weren’t. You gave me an order.”

Another blink. This time, Draco’s lashes fluttered a bit. “I did.”

Harry knew he was being baited into lashing out, but so, so gently. Draco had always done this to him, hadn’t he? Always drawn his ire, tugged at his pigtails. Had Draco wanted this, what they had now, the whole time? It staggered Harry’s imagination, to try to rearrange the whole lot of their long history into a different part of his mind. 

But now it was different. Draco wasn’t calling his friend racial slurs anymore, he wasn’t casting unforgivables at him, but Harry felt cut just as deeply. Draco was perched on the windowsill, quivering a bit, and looking as vulnerable as it was possible to look while being completely unafraid. Insouciant, more like. 

“I think,” Harry said carefully, “I think you need to be punished. Otherwise, you might do that again.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 

Harry leaned back in the seat and shifted to get more comfortable. The team could have portkeyed to Spain, but the resort had sprung for a chartered flight. The airplane cabin was magically expanded, and the interior looked like a lounge from the 1960’s, one that Hugh Hefner might have entertained bunnies in. The effect was completed by the flight attendants, who were dressed attractively in gogo boots and navy blue robes with a pink trim that stopped just short of mid thigh. Adrian Pucey looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. 

Harry wasn’t paying them any attention. His thoughts were focused solely on the events of Monday morning. 

_ “I think,” Harry said carefully, “I think you need to be punished. Otherwise, you might do that again.”  _

_ Draco’s eyes lit up. Harry saw it. But he schooled his expression so that he looked frightened instead of excited. “No, sir. I promise. I won’t. I’ll be perfect for you, sir.”  _

_ Perfect for you. Oh, but that sounded lovely, Harry thought. The words were designed to placate him, but he was already too involved in this game they were playing, and he carried on. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any lenience, Malfoy. You’re going to need a lesson.” Malfoy looked at him expectantly. “Take down your pants.”  _

Draco was seated at the rear of the plane, nestled into a sofa in an alcove, reading something or other. A book. He was so slight looking that the cushions seemed about to swallow him up. Harry tried not to notice him. Draco liked him better when Harry was a prick to him in public, and if he did pay any attention to him now, Harry knew he’d be unable to resist pulling him onto his lap and tickling his ear with his tongue so he’d turn a delightful shade of red. 

_ Harry sat down on the conference table, his feet on one of the chairs, and Draco was splayed out over his lap. His pants, a grey tweed, had been shoved down, and underneath Draco was wearing pink silk underwear. Had he been expecting something like this to happen, or were these the only under clothes he owned?  _

_ Harry pulled the soft fabric over the swell of Draco’s arse so that they hung around his knees. His legs were slender and milk white, with a light dusting of blond hair all over them. They were muscular, but not built like Harry’s had become in the past couple of years. Not swollen. Just muscular enough to be shapely. Harry spread his hand out to feel the swell of them, before pulling it back and hitting Draco hard on the right cheek of his behind.  _

_ The cracking noise it made echoed off the conference room wall, and Draco cried out in surprise.  _

The plane landed around mid afternoon, and they were brought in a limousine to the resort. It was built in an Alhambra revival style from the middle ages; beautiful archways opened onto courtyards with tinkling fountains and mosaic tile floors. The rows of mullioned windows gave Harry glimpses of the deep blue of the ocean, and when they went out into a courtyard to relax and sample the hors d'oeuvres, it was two hours before sunset and just warm enough not to need a jacket. 

Their team press liaison greeted them and gave them a folder with an itinerary for the week, outlining their responsibilities and suggested activities for the photographers. No interviews, only an hour or two a day of shooting, and none of it posed - just candids so the resort looked nice, and the papers could sell some extra copies with Harry Potter and his team members on a beach. Harry usually dreaded being in the papers, but if he had to be in them, this didn’t seem too bad. 

Their first responsibility was to get on a sailboat with the photographers and a set of five models, all of them dressed in bathing suits. Draco retreated with a member of the hotel staff to his room, and Harry and the rest of the team were given their own beachy button down white shirts, Speedo bottoms, and Rayban sunglasses. They went to the changing rooms on the beach straight away. 

_ Draco’s prick was digging into the top of Harry’s thigh. It was rigid, and every time Harry brought his hand down to hit him, Draco dug his cock into the fabric of Harry’s pants, dragging it over the roughness, looking for friction.  _

_ “You were totally out of line in there, Malfoy. You disobeyed me. Publicly.”  _

_ “Yes, sir. I’m - AH - sorry, I’m so sorry.”  _

_ “You know where your place is, Malfoy.” He slapped him again, the skin on Draco’s arse reddening, but the harder Harry hit him, the more Draco pushed into his leg with his cock. “And look at you, desperate to come, even though I’m hitting you.” Three more quick smacks; Draco cried out each time. “You should be so embarrassed. What kind of pervert would like this?”  _

_ Draco was rocking up into his hand now, and shoving himself forward after he’d been hit. The friction of his movements was starting to affect Harry - his cock was standing up, aching for more contact than it was getting. Draco’s arse was painted red by this point, but Harry kept hitting him, over and over, harder and harder. He could scarcely believe Draco was enjoying this, but between the noises he was making and the stiffness of his little cock rubbing against Harry’s thighs, his pleasure was abundantly clear.  _

_ “I expect you to obey me, Malfoy. You’ve been very bad, for a very long time, and you need to learn your place.”  _

The sailboat lingered a hundred meters offshore, where the waves were relatively calm and the sunset light was perfect for photos. The models were friendly and all over Harry, and he found to his own delight that he loved the attention. He was on a boat with his friends and beautiful women, it was sunset, and he was eating ceviche, which he had never tried before. 

All his years spent famous, he’d never really gotten the fun side of it, and here it all was. He played around with the girls, shoving them off the boat and diving after them into the sea. He and Oliver Wood sang the Gryffindor house song, and when Pucey tried to drown them out with the Slytherin version, they upended the ice cooler on his head to shut him up. The photographers were nice blokes who were enjoying the party themselves, and by the time they were coming back to shore, they were all sun soaked and ready for a massive meal. 

The boat docked, and Harry made his way back to shore. Wood was leaving with one of the models, Lennox Campbell with two of them, and Pucey looking sour at his own sore luck. Harry didn’t even think about bringing one of them back to his beach house. 

_ Draco was a quivering mass of putty on Harry’s lap. Harry had stopped spanking him, afraid he’d gone too far. Draco would bruise, he could see it already. It looked in places almost as if he’d been lashed with a cane, but it had just been Harry’s fingers. He sounded a bit overwhelmed, whimpering a bit, but still rubbing his prick against Harry’s thighs.  _

_ “Shhhh,” Harry said, running his hands over Draco’s backside.  _

_ Draco let out a half sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sir. Please.”  _

_ “I know,” Harry said, soothingly. “I know, Malfoy. It’s okay now.”  _

_ Draco took in another shuddering breath. Harry’s head spun with what they’d just done. Where was this coming from, this physical need to subjugate Draco? He supposed he’d always felt that need, but in different directions. But why on earth was Draco letting him? Not only letting him, but practically (literally, at times) begging him for it? It was such a mystery.  _

_ Harry was petting Draco’s arse now, which was hot to the touch. “You’ve been so good for me, taking your punishment. You deserve to feel better.”  _

_ Draco’s arse perked up a bit. “Oh please, yes,” he breathed.  _

_ Harry’s fingers swirled around Draco’s crack. He whispered the spell for the lubricant they’d used last time, and stuck his middle finger up against his hole.  _

_ Draco let out a tiny moan. His balls tensed and drew closer to his body. “Are you going to come this fast, Malfoy?” Harry asked him, not cruelly. Gently, so gently, he probed into his arse hole with the finger. “Yes, that’s it,” he said, as Malfoy cried out with relief. “That’s right. That’s a good boy.” _

_ Harry reached down with his other hand for Malfoy’s cock. He didn’t pull it, but instead massaged it between his fingers. Draco drove into it, fucking his fist, and then out, fucking himself back on Harry’s fingers. Harry let him control the pace, and Draco seemed to want it slow, working himself back on Harry’s fingers and into Harry’s hand, the pace of it excruciating, until he finally spilled all over Harry’s trousers, his hips thrusting weakly, his arse so red it glowed.  _

Harry was just thinking about going to find wherever Malfoy had been put by the staff, when the remaining team members happened upon him in a cabana, half asleep and lying face down on a sun bed, soaking up the last sun of the day in a speedo. 

They all stopped. Harry nearly ran into the group of them. They were staring at Malfoy. 

There was a very noticeable set of bruises in the shape of handprints on his upper thighs. Malfoy hadn’t healed them. 

Harry cleared his throat by way of breaking the tension. “Malfoy.” 

Draco squinted up at him from his cabana. “Potter.”

“I think we’re going to see about dinner. Want to join?”

Draco flipped over and grabbed his shirt. “With pleasure.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 

Dinner was done, and Harry walked back out onto the beach, looking for Draco. 

They’d all eaten dinner in the restaurant, but at separate tables. Harry had sat next to Oliver Wood and Alasdair Maddock at a table in the middle of the dining room, and he’d motioned for Draco to join them after looking around and seeing him hovering between the host’s table and the rest of the team. 

The others had moved on to billiards after dinner, and Draco had wandered off somewhere outside. Harry followed him after a few rounds of pool and set about the beach, hunting after him. The warming charms on the beach had been turned down at night, and the cool air was prickling his skin now and setting his nerves on edge. 

He saw him on a couch a good distance away, his brilliant blond topknot a gleaming silhouette against the pitch black waves behind him. 

“Boo,” said Harry, coming up beside him. Draco startled. 

“Fuck, Potter.” Draco hissed with annoyance, but he slid sideways on the chair to make room for Harry. 

“Budge over a bit more. That’s it.” Harry set his feet up on the table across from the sofa, and grabbed Draco roughly by the neck, pulling his head down onto his lap. 

Draco appeared stunned. “Potter,” he said. Harry untied the knot holding his hair together. “Potter. What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing, Malfoy?” Draco’s hair came tumbling out of its elaborate knot. It was so long, and a bit wavy, and mostly platinum, with a few golden undertones to it. Harry began dragging his fingers through it, starting at the roots of it and scratching Draco’s head before lacing them further and further down to the ends. If Draco stood up, his hair would reach halfway down his back. “Jesus. When did you have time to grow all this hair?” 

Draco smirked. “I’m a wizard, Potter. There are potions.”

“I didn’t know there were potions that could make hair like this.” 

Draco’s smirk deepened. “Clearly.”

Harry let out a guffaw. “What’s that supposed to mean, Malfoy?”

“That you have the worst hair in Great Britain, Potter, and you won’t do anything about it.” 

“Surely not the  _ worst _ hair.” 

“Granger used to best you, but she discovered the potions in the fourth year.” 

“And how long have you been using the potions? Kindergarten?”

Draco managed to look disdainful, even with his eyes closed with the pleasure of Harry touching his head. “I was still in the cradle, naturally. My parents couldn’t have me going to play school without it slicked back nicely, like a proper gentleman.” 

Both of them froze, suddenly, as their teammates all came crashing and hooting out of the billiard hall. Harry picked his hands out of Draco’s hair, and they lay motionless on the couch. After a minute it became apparent they were all heading in the other direction, and both Harry and Draco finally exhaled. 

The easy mood seemed broken. “Well. I’d better go back to my rooms.”

“Shut it, Malfoy. You already know you’re coming back to my room, and you’re only fishing for an invitation.” 

Caught out, Draco quirked an eyebrow. “If you insist. Sir.” 

\-------------------------

Draco was laid out on Harry’s lap, on his bed, the duvet twisted around his perfectly white, whipcord body, and Harry was brushing his hair. 

He could have been asleep, for how peaceful he was. His spent cock had gone completely flaccid, and his chest was rising and falling, slowly and deeply. His shoulders spilled across Harry’s thighs, and his hair lay on the silk of the pillowcase beneath his head. 

Harry ran the hairbrush through his hair, gently massaging his temples and pulling the hair away from the nape of Draco’s neck, where a line of bruises started. Harry had gotten a bit carried away with sucking on him, but in all fairness, his attention had been focused elsewhere. When they came into the room, Draco had thrown himself over the baseboard of the bed and begged Harry to hold his hair in his fist and fuck him between the thighs, and Harry had obeyed him single mindedly until they both came in a frenzy, his mouth latched onto the side of Draco’s long neck, right where it met his shoulder, Draco bowed back, gasping and twisting and humping his own cock into the soft mattress. 

Harry worked the knots out of Draco’s hair, the ends spreading in a halo around the pillow, until every strand was gleaming. He pet his head a few more times with the brush, shifted so Draco’s head was cradled between his thighs instead of across them, then laid his hair over his shoulders, so it fell down around his nipples. 

They looked so gorgeous, Harry could help but take the tips of them between his fingers. Draco gasped and squirmed, looking a bit shy. 

“That’s right, Malfoy,” Harry told him. He wet the tips of his fingers on his tongue, and went back to work. Draco let out a half stifled moan, and arched his back, chasing Harry’s teasing caress. “Does that make you feel sexual?”

“Mmm yes.” Draco blushed as his cock filled back up, and Harry wondered at how much the other man seemed embarrassed by his own desires. It made him want to push him further. 

“Do you feel dirty when I touch you this way?” Draco was nearly panting now, his cock rigidly thrusting into the air. “Have you ever touched yourself like this before?” 

“N - no.” 

“Liar.” Harry twisted Draco’s nipple this time, squeezing until it turned red. “You have, haven’t you?” He began plucking his nipples, pulling them far out from his chest, enough to smart, but not enough to hurt. “Tell me.” 

“Fine. Yes.” Draco’s face was red, to the tips of his ears. “I’ve played with them.” 

“What did you think about when you played with them?” 

Draco kicked his feet, he was so desperate to shove his cock onto something, but there was only air above him. “I thought about being sucked. About someone sucking on them, and biting them. And then feeling them be wet with spit, and exposed.”

  
Harry spread the palms of his hands over Draco’s chest, running the pebbling nipples in between the webbing of his fingers. “I bet that felt pretty embarrassing, to be that exposed.” 

“Ah - yes.” 

“Did you touch yourself afterwards? Tell me.”

“Yes.” 

“Show me.” 

Draco nearly cried with relief, his hand closing around his cock, and he pulled the foreskin back hard as he wanked himself, spreading his legs so far that his heels hit the back of his thighs. 

Harry sighed as if disappointed. “You’re such a slut, Malfoy.” He wasn’t, really. Malfoy had as good as told him he was a virgin that time in Harry’s flat, but Harry knew well enough by now that Draco got off on being humiliated. He took his hands off Malfoy’s chest and lightly flicked his nipples with his index fingers. Draco slowed the pace of his wanking so that it matched Harry’s lazy fingers on his nipples, thrusting up and squirming as Harry rolled his fingers and plucked at his chest, but he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing at himself faster and faster, until his hand was a blur on his cock. “Look at you, about to come from me playing with your tits.” 

Malfoy’s face froze as he started to come, his breaths coming in little gasps and groans, until finally his cock quit spasming and his legs fell back onto the bed. By degrees, he relaxed back into Harry’s chest, and Harry made little little shushing sounds until Malfoy’s breathing was steady and he was perfectly still but for his chest rising as he inhaled. 

Harry picked up the hairbrush, and started brushing again. Draco, bracketed between Harry’s legs, pulled the duvet over both of them, and fell asleep. 

Harry fetched his wand. “Nox.”

\--------------------------

Some time later, Draco stirred. They had both dozed and gotten a bit sweaty, piled up on top of each other under the airy blanket. Harry was hungry for a late night snack. 

“I’m going to fire call the kitchens. Do you want anything?”

Draco roused himself nervously. “Don’t, ah, I’ll just be going then.” 

Harry was confused. “Why’s that? You can stay here if you’d like.”

Draco’s face did a funny thing. All the muscles on it went slack suddenly, and then nearly pulled back into a quiet smile, but then Draco tensed up again, and looked nervous again. “You can’t bring people up here with me in your bedroom. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Draco was such a mystery. He spoke in codes, and Harry knew he was supposed to understand, but he couldn’t. It was too complicated. When Harry had been with Ginny, or the girls he had met going out with friends, things were so much more straightforward. He did things because they felt good, and that’s what he’d been doing here, but Malfoy clearly wasn’t just doing this because it felt good, he had a massive cluster of motivations Harry couldn’t begin to untangle. “Malfoy, why can’t people see you in my bedroom? It will just be the room service, I’m not inviting the photographers to come take pictures.” 

“But you are,” Malfoy said vehemently, huffing a bit in a way Harry found cute despite himself. “The photographers are staying at the hotel, and the servers will tell them, and we’ll wake up tomorrow or the next day with them camped outside your door, waiting for me to come out. You  _ cannot _ possibly want…”

“What does it matter?” Harry was angry now, and behind that anger was a little rejection, a little voice feeling sorry for himself, that Draco wouldn’t be seen with him. “Am I not good enough for you,  _ Malfoy _ ?” 

Draco’s face looked crestfallen. Harry had made a point of emphasizing Draco’s disgraced last name, and Draco looked like he wanted to cry, and Harry felt  _ awful _ , just awful about himself, but he’d only been feeling rejected, and then he’d gone and taken it out on Draco, who was - 

“Oh fuck, don’t leave.” Draco was gathering up his things, pointedly not looking in Harry’s direction. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Just stay.” He grabbed at Draco’s arm, but the smaller man shook him off. “Why are you so afraid of being seen with me?” Malfoy gave him a dark look, but continued dressing in what was now a towering fit of rage. “ _ Draco _ , for God’s sake, stay and talk to me.” 

At the sound of his given name, Draco stopped, his shirt halfway buttoned. He sat down heavily on a sofa. 

“I don’t want people to see us together, because the second they do, a wall of shit will fall on me in the press, and my parents will know I’m gay, and I won’t ever get married like I’m supposed to. To a girl. To carry on the family.” Draco looked blankly into the middle distance, unseeing. His eyes were the tiniest bit wet. “And the second anyone finds out about this, your friends will turn against you, and you’ll ditch me.”

This was the first time anything Draco had said or done made logical sense to Harry. Everything else made some kind of sense, Draco’s need to be hit, and embarrassed, and treated poorly, but it was a  _ perverse _ kind of sense, driven by something Harry couldn’t put his finger on; but Draco fearing the papers, Draco wanting to hide from his family, this made sense to him, and he understood. 

“Okay,” Harry said, more calmly now. “My friends wouldn’t do that, and I wouldn’t ditch you because of something a paper said, but okay.”

Draco had a remarkable talent for looking at Harry like his IQ, expressed in pounds, was enough to buy two orders of fish and chips. “I was awful to your friends, Harry. I called them…. I told Granger…..”

“Right,” Harry said. “You did.” Draco’s eyes were looking a bit more wet. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

Draco’s face crumpled. “It’s not possible for us to be together, in public. We’re not even together. I’m… I’m only your sub. Someone for you to use. Someone for you to use.” Draco was saying this to himself, not to Harry. He was so scared. Harry didn’t know how to make him feel better. 

“You’re not someone for me to use.” Wrong thing to say. Draco looked offended, now. “I mean, you are. I like using you.” This was working. Draco still looked panicked, but gratified. “But we could be something more than that.”

Draco shook his head. “No, we can’t do that. They’ll be horrible to me. Horrible, Potter. I’ll get hate mail, and howlers, and people will go back to cursing me on the street, like they did before the trials,” he was nearly hyperventilating now, he was so panicked, “and my mother will be  _ heartbroken _ , Potter, you can’t -”

“ _ Okay _ ,” Harry broke through. He stooped to where Draco was sitting, and went on a knee beside him. “We don’t have to tell anyone. But you can be my boyfriend,” Draco looked a bit offended again, “ _ and  _ my sub. But in private.” 

“Is that really how you want things?” 

Harry thought. “No. Well, I don’t care either way. I don’t mind if people know we’re having sex. I mean, I don’t think I’d like them knowing that I hit you and throw you around a bit and call you nasty names. But. If they saw us having dinner, I’d be okay with that.” 

Draco was looking happier now. Harry knew he was on the right track. “You’re… you’re my sub, right? And doesn’t that mean I should, you know, give you what you’d like? Isn’t that how this works?”

“It can work however we want it to work, Potter. There’s not really rules for this kind of thing somewhere. The Ministry doesn’t have a code of ethics somewhere for how to dominate your queer schoolmate.” 

Harry laughed, and slid next to him on the sofa. “Right. But I’d like to give you what you want.” It was true, Harry marveled. “You like to feel embarrassed, and like you’re being used, and I like to give you what you like. I like to make you feel safe, and happy.” 

“Why? Why would you want to make  _ me _ feel happy?” 

“That’s my kink, I guess,” Harry said. 

Draco paused a moment, thinking. His brows stitched together, and his mouth opened and closed, like it did when he was trying to get something important out, but couldn’t lower his inhibitions enough to let it out. 

  
“Say it, Draco. Tell me.” Harry put the command into his voice, and Draco relaxed. 

“I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” 

_ Oh _ . “Oh.” 

“No!” Draco reached out and buried his face in Harry’s shoulder. “I mean, I want to be your… I would like to be in a relationship with you.”

“Right.” Harry waited. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I want to be your boyfriend. But I don’t want to be… I want to be your girlfriend.”

Harry was confused again. This was so confusing. “But you’re a boy. A man. You’re a man.”

Draco nodded. “I am. I identify as a man, yes. But I want,” Harry patted his back, as Draco tried to get it out. “I want you to treat me how you’d treat a girlfriend. Like, send me notes, and take me on little trips, and send me gifts, and brush my hair. And let me be a little silly, and ditsy, and spoiled. Sometimes. Not always.” 

“So,” Harry cast about for the right words. “You want to role play. As my girlfriend.”

Draco buried his face in Harry’s neck. “Yes. This is so embarrassing.” 

“But you’ll also be my secret boyfriend.” 

Draco nodded. 

“We can do that, Draco. I can take you shopping, and spoil you, and spank you, and whatever else you’d like.”

“Thank you.” Draco sounded abjectly grateful. “Thank you, sir.” 

Harry stroked his hair. 

  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

“Hurry up, Harry, we’ve only one minute left.” 

Hermione’s hair bounced on her shoulders as she hustled down the stairs in front of him. She was dressed in a black pea coat drawn around her waist with a sash, her skirt so short it wasn’t visible beneath the hem of the jacket. The London winter was freezing, and she wore thick red stockings to keep out the cold. 

Her head disappeared in the crowd, but Harry managed to follow the flashes of red on her tights until they got to their train, just in time. The door closed, and they both leaned back on it, panting, as it took off through the underground. 

Once she caught her breath, Hermione grabbed her leather satchel and dug through it for something. Harry thought he could hear the sound of heavy books thumping around, and possibly a cat hissing, before she drew out a list written on a sheet of parchment. “Right. I’ve had my mum and dad sorted, and you, from when I went out to the shops with Ron, but we’ll both need presents for Molly and Arthur, and you’ll want something for Teddy, and I need to find something really posh for Ron that he wouldn’t buy for himself. Oh, and you’ll want to buy Ron something as well.” 

“Right. Thanks for doing this with me, Hermione.” He and Hermione had decided last year to do Christmas shopping together. Hermione helped Harry with tasteful gift suggestions. He was alright picking things out for Ron, but rubbish at presents for everyone else, and they both needed to keep their gifts for Ron a surprise. 

“No problem, Harry. I’m sorry we couldn’t go to Diagon Alley.” Harry had asked Hermione to come shopping for presents with him in muggle London because last Christmas, he had gone to Diagon Alley, and he and Hermione had been mobbed by the holiday crowds. So many people had tried to touch him that he ran down Knockturn Alley and hid behind a dustbin, where he put on his invisibility cloak and escaped out the Leaky Cauldron. When he finally met up with Hermione at her and Ron’s flat, he found her jumper torn on the shoulder and her mood decidedly disgruntled. 

They left the tube and walked through a maze of staircases, Harry’s hand in Hermione’s, her head bobbing confidently through the crowd. Harry took a moment to relish being anonymous in a huge mass of Christmas shoppers, and workers going home, and friends heading out for a pint, their smiles easy. 

Then they turned a corner and came full onto Oxford Street, and Harry saw the most beautiful display of Christmas lights, muggle or wizard, that he’d ever beheld. All the time he’d grown up with the Dursleys, he’d never gotten to enjoy a proper Christmas. And now he was here with Hermione, his best friend, and he had a dozen people he loved to buy presents for, and he was  _ loaded _ . 

“Hermione,” Harry said. “I need your help.” 

“What is it?” 

“I’m a professional athlete, and I want to spend an idiotic amount of money, and I have no idea how.” 

Hermione’s laugh sounded like little bells. “I think I can sort you out.” 

\-----------------

“Harry, this is ridiculous. A two year old does  _ not  _ want a ride-on Mercedes.”

“That’s what you think, Hermione, but you never were a two year old  _ boy _ . And look!” Harry placed a giant sized teddy bear in the driver’s seat. “He can have a little pal to drive around with. He’ll love it!” 

Hermione paused. “Better make it two cars, then. We could enchant the bear to drive the other one and race him round the back garden.” 

“Now you’ve got the spirit. Two please,” Harry told the salesperson. “And could you gift wrap them?”

Once they had finished with the children’s section and arranged to have all Teddy’s new cars, stuffed animals, and the multitudes of Duplo shipped to Andromeda’s cottage, they took the escalator down to the first floor of Harrods to have a look at some of the designer clothing. 

Harry and Hermione decided to buy Ron a joint gift. He’d been spending a lot of time working for George lately, meeting with suppliers and making deals to sell products in more diverse retail spaces, so Hermione felt he needed some better clothes than his standard button downs and tired grey trousers, not that Ron would ever agree to spending any money on his wardrobe.

Personally, Harry thought it was silly to splash out on clothes, but he was enjoying himself so thoroughly that he no longer cared. 

“Do you think he’d like the tan jacket or the navy?” 

“Both,” said Harry, decisively. “Is Armani a good brand?” 

Hermione and Draco had the same talent for looking at him like he was beyond stupid. “Yes, Harry.” 

“Brilliant. Better buy it in black as well, then.” The salesman on this floor looked like he had been transported into paradise. “And what about ties?”

Harry delighted in picking out a tie for every color of the rainbow, and had them all wrapped up in the same box. He remembered their fourth year, and how Ron was humiliated by his formal robes for the Yule ball, and thinking he would gladly have spent his own money to buy him nice robes if it wouldn’t have humiliated him further. Harry was happy that Ron had made so much money in the last few years, along with the rest of his family, because it meant Harry could spoil them all a little by way of thanking them for everything they’d done. 

After picking up a watch for Mr. Weasley and a tennis bracelet for Mrs. Weasley, Harry waited around the front of the store for Hermione to finish paying for a music box for Ginny. He wandered through the rows of merchandise, a bit dazzled by the Christmas displays, all the trees done up with crystal ornaments and pretty lights. Wizards always made Christmas so cozy, which Harry loved, but Muggles made it fantastic, and so over the top that it was just like magic.

He walked further towards the big displays at the front, and he stopped in front of a group of mannequins. They wore gorgeous fur coats, each one of them in a different color - brown and black mink furs, and fox furs dyed hot pink and jet blue. Harry wanted to rub his face into them, but he thought, giddily, that some crazed salesperson might jump out from behind the displays and whack him with a rolled up newspaper for trying. 

Row after row of coats, on mannequins with pretty delicate legs and elegant fingers. Harry stopped in front of an armless fur cloak. It looked almost like something from the magical world, like a robe. It was so white that the tips of the fur seemed to sparkle, and a massive train hung behind the mannequin and trailed on the floor. He gestured for the hovering salesperson to come closer, but before he could speak to her - 

“Harry.” He had been so absorbed by the magic of the coat, he hadn’t noticed Hermione behind him. He looked up, guiltily, like a raccoon caught in a picnic basket. 

“It’s alright Harry. Do you have someone….else to buy a present for?” 

Harry nodded. “I. I think I’d better. What do you think? Is it a nice coat?” 

Hermione looked at him steadily. “Harry, it’s gorgeous. But it’s so expensive. And if you haven’t been seeing each other very long… it’s a very intimate thing, to buy a gift like this.” 

Harry sighed. “I know. But I think the coat would… it would be a good gift, I think.” 

Hermione smiled carefully, as if holding back a great excitement. “Oh Harry, I had no idea. How long have you known her?” 

The salesperson had brought the coat off the mannequin, and Harry held it in his hands. It was so soft, just as he’d expected, and the interior was lined with the palest cream silk. Harry closed his eyes. 

“Years, Hermione. For so long.” 

  
  


\------------------------

In the cab back to Grimmauld Place, Harry began to panic. 

He’d spent twenty thousand pounds on a fur coat. 

For Draco. 

Who he’d been properly dating for about two weeks.  _ Oh God _ , Harry thought, staring intently into the center console of the taxi.  _ He is going to think I’m obsessed with him.  _

They stopped at a red light. A man waited on the corner with his dog. The dog strained towards the intersection, until it was held taught on the end of its harness. 

_ Oh God.  _ Harry thought.  _ I’m obsessed with him. _

Hermione was watching him, and Harry tried to breathe slowly and appear calm, but his awareness of his own panic was only made worse, and a crinkle appeared between her eyebrows. 

_ It was sixth year _ , Harry thought, a bit desperately.  _ I’ve been obsessed with him since sixth year, and it’s never let up, not for a single -  _

“Harry,” Hermione’s hand covered his, so gently. “Harry, whoever is getting this coat, she’s going to be so happy. Don’t be worried. If she cares about you, she’ll know you like big shows of affection, and she’ll love it.”

“What if...er...she thinks it’s too intense? Or that I’m in love with her?”

Hermione gave his hand a little squeeze. “Since when is that a bad thing? You’ve known her - “

  
“Him.” Harry didn’t suppose it was breaking his promise to Draco to keep things private to correct her on this detail.

“Him. You’ve known him for years? So you must have known each other through the war, and everything that’s happened in school. A nice fur isn’t more intense than a war. Honestly, Harry. It’s a lovely present, only you’d better tell him to expect something nice, or else he’ll feel  _ really  _ embarrassed that he hasn’t gotten you something posh in return.”

Harry finally felt on firm footing. “In that case, it’s perfect.”

\--------------------

They were off Quidditch for the week before the holiday, and Malfoy was with his mother in London. They didn’t have plans to see each other. Harry thought about sending an owl and arranging a lunch date, but that seemed curiously out of character, given that the last time they’d seen each other had been at the end of the trip to Spain. Harry had taken a few hours to tie Draco up and spank him, after he’d dropped the Quaffle one too many times in practice and gotten shirty with Maddock. After that, Harry didn’t think having lunch in a quiet flat was their speed. 

Part of Harry thought it would be fun to be the kind of boyfriend that was territorial, that wanted Draco to know he was dying to see him, but a greater part of him knew it would make Draco hungry to not hear from him for a week or so, especially on the holidays. It would make the present that much more of a surprise. 

Getting ready for the Burrow on Christmas Eve, Harry pulled on one of his Weasley sweaters that Molly had knitted him last year, but was amused to find it was much too small owing to all the extra muscles he’d picked up in conditioning sessions. He enlarged it with a charm, ran a hand through his hair in the mirror, and bounced downstairs. 

No sooner had he arrived in the kitchen then he was given a job to do: peeling potatoes over a bin, while Ron sat next to him, chopping them into half inch bits. Ron was uncharacteristically silent, and his lips were the same pallid shade of white as the rest of him. 

“Anything wrong?” Harry asked him, once Molly had ducked out to the living room to find her table linens. 

Ron checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “I’m bloody terrified. In sixty minutes time, once these potatoes are chopped, boiled, and set on the table, and we all sit down to a toast, I’m going to ask Hermione to marry me.” 

Harry suppressed his urge to shout and clap Ron on the back. He looked like he was going to sick up over the potatoes. “That’s brilliant, Ron,” Harry said in a whisper. “She’s going to be so happy.” 

“Harry, my whole family is here. If I stutter, or turn red, or fuck it up in any way, George and Bill will take the piss all night.” 

“So do it in private, then. Alone.”

Ron looked at him pityingly. “Mate, you and I - we’ve done things much scarier than this. Dragons, and bank robberies. Doing it will be fine. It’s sitting here, chopping these fucking potatoes for the next half hour that will drive me batty.” 

Harry nodded. He felt rather the same about the package he’d sent off with Kreacher, an hour before, to the Malfoy’s flat in London. It was wrapped in simple brown paper and contained a note bearing only the words “Happy Christmas”. He’d instructed Kreacher to leave it with the rest of Malfoy’s presents, so that when he woke up in the morning, he’d find it waiting at the foot of his bed. It would be another twelve hours at least before Draco opened it, and even if he sent Harry an owl right away, an hour or two later before he had any indication of whether the gift was well received. The anticipation was killing him. 

“Besides, Hermione will love it. She’d never admit it, but she loves a grand gesture. She deserves to have a fuss made over her.” Ron smiled to himself, and went back to chopping the potatoes, this time with a bit more enthusiasm and color in his face. 

They were all swept up in a friendly riot getting the dishes on the table, Ginny playfully bumping past him in the hallway, Fleur setting the silver on the table with astonishingly precise charm work, (“at Beauxbatons, everyone learns table setting charms. It is the part of the third year cotillion,”) George and Charlie pouring wine into every glass. At the last second before dinner was served, the wards announced the arrival of two unexpected guests at the far gate. 

Arthur went out to fetch them, and presently, Mr. and Mrs. Granger walked through the door, looking thoroughly mystified even through their many layers of muggle winter coats. Though their expressions still bore some of the glassy placidity Harry recalled on Lockhart’s face during his fifth year visit to St. Mungo’s, they smiled and hugged Hermione, who looked very surprised to see them, and sat next to her and Ron in the center of the table. 

The fire and the fairy lights cast flickering shadows on the wall, and the wireless hummed Christmas carols at a low volume. Everyone put their napkins on their laps, and Arthur raised his glass for a toast. 

Harry felt his heart soaring as he looked across the table at his two best friends, and raised his glass to them. 

Ron winked at him, pushed back his chair, and knelt before Hermione on the floor. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Boxing day was about as good as it possibly got for Harry in Diagon Alley, but even so, he had to wear his invisibility cloak. Under normal circumstances on a quiet day after a holiday, he would have gone visible, but today he was headed to the darker corner of wizarding London, and he preferred not to be noticed. 

Once he’d passed Gringotts (noting, with satisfaction, that the ridiculous chandelier smashed by Harry, Ron, and Hermione on the backs of the dragon two years ago had yet to be replaced), Harry took a right turn and walked as softly as he could down Knockturn Alley. Here, he stood a fair chance of not being mobbed by the witches and wizards that lurked in the corner without his cloak, but he kept it on as he walked past sharp-looking street vendors. Several wizards lay unconscious on the cobblestones, grasping bottles with green liquid leaking out of them, and mean looking witches peered out at him from grubby windows. 

Borgin and Burkes had been shut down just after the war. Its contents had been confiscated and sold at auction, and the shopkeepers clapped into Azkaban. The shopfront was still abandoned, besides a few shady looking figures lurking in the door frame, but the warehouse behind it, down a narrow path in the alley, had opened as a bespoke potions shop. It was here that Harry turned, and finally took off his cloak as he walked inside. 

Blaise Zabini looked up at him from behind his counter, startled. “Potter.”

Harry nodded. “Zabini.” 

Blaise recovered quickly, and became, if not obsequious, flippantly worshipful. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your custom, Harry Potter, sir?”

Harry snuffed some air out of his nostrils. “Blaise. I heard you do potions.” 

“I do.” 

“Ron. He said you were good at them.” 

Blaise puffed up a bit and looked more genuinely pleased to see him. “I have made some. Advancements.” 

“Better than  _ George’s  _ potions, he said.” Harry hoped Blaise would get the hint. 

“Did he?” Blaise was now transparently flattered. “Whatever potions did he mention?”

Harry was working up to it, but he didn’t know if he could master his own inhibitions enough to come straight out with what he wanted. Blaise was being an arse, too. He knew very well what kind of potions George sold in his shop. “I’m er…”  _ Bugger it _ , Harry thought. “Love potions.”

Blaise smiled like a cat who’d eaten the cream. “Potter, let me be the first to offer my assurance that anything you purchase or commission here will be completely confidential.” His fingers had been resting on a drawer since Harry entered, as if he’d been waiting for exactly this turn of conversation, and now he snapped two locks on it open with a neat twist of his wrists. 

The drawer was chock full of a rainbow of different potions vials, all of them bubbling, frothing, one of them was… giggling? “I. I didn’t realize there were so many.” 

Blaise chuckled low in his chest. “There are so many flavors of affection, Potter. He pointed to the purples and the blues, on the right end of the chest. “The cooler colors are for cuddling. Ten galleons each dose, they’ll cause an irresistible desire to caress the chosen partner of the ingestor. And these,” his fingers were on the yellows and oranges now, “for flirting. Twenty galleons. Perfect for a first date. An hour of effervescent conversation, winking, footsie, etc.” 

“And the red?”

“Fifty galleons. One hour of bottled lust. As many couplings as you so desire, and believe me, you’ll desire quite a few.” 

“And. It’s voluntary, right? No bewitching the potion to make the person ingesting it want…”

“Precisely. The potion will only enhance the desires for the person you’re already attracted to. It shares a reagent with Veritaserum. Joberknoll feathers. It won’t make you spill your secrets, but it makes it impossible to lie, or pretend, or fake an attraction you don’t already have. And you must sign these forms,” Blaise lifted the case holding the vials to reveal a stack of the forms lying in wait, “in triplicate, certifying that you will not use the potions nonconsensually.” 

Harry was impressed, despite himself. Now that he thought about it, selling love potions was a terrible thing, given their ability to bend the will of the people drinking them. “That’s very ethical.” 

Blaise looked abashed. “Well. Don’t go thinking I’m a do-gooder. It’s really more about liability. The ministry isn’t as lenient for potions vendors on this side of wizarding London.” 

In spite of what he said, Harry thought Blaise really  _ was _ trying to be ethical. He was lying, and so Harry trusted him. “Brilliant. I’ll take one dose of that,” he said, pointing to the reddest potion in the case, “and I need to make a custom order.”

“What kind?”

Harry looked behind him, making sure no one was coming into the shop. “It’s not for me. And it’s completely private.”

Blaise smirked. “Of course.” Without looking, he reached down towards his knee and pulled out another form. “Confidential.”

\------------------------

The lust potion was safely tucked inside his mokeskin pouch. Harry slipped the cloak on before he left Zabini’s shop, and took a left turn to head further down Knockturn Alley, toward a distant apparition point. He was nearly there, only thirty more paces, when someone appeared suddenly on the very spot he was walking towards. 

It was a man with sleek blond hair and a full length, fox fur coat. 

Harry let out what he was sure was an audible intake of breath. Draco looked flawless. His stature, while normally just taller than diminutive, was elongated by the train of the coat behind him and the slight heel to the boots he wore. The ash coloring in the fox tails round his collar and hood set his grey eyes to glinting. It was all Harry could do not to fall to his knees, helpless at the sight of him. 

As he walked past, Harry turned and followed. The hard-done witches and wizards on the floor of the alley and behind its smeared windows looked at Draco enviously, but as Draco turned onto Diagon Alley, the stares became awestruck, even lustful. Men and women alike snapped their heads around in Draco’s wake to look him up and down. 

_ And he’s mine _ , thought Harry proprietorially.  _ All mine.  _ He pictured himself walking along at Draco’s side, one of the smaller man’s hands clasped around his elbow, people’s heads turning enviously towards  _ him _ , jealous of the beautiful creature on his arm, and the need to mark Draco, to possess him, passed over Harry in a great shudder. 

Draco stopped at a shop window containing floating, miniature hot air balloons, and Harry strode ahead of him into a disused alcove and threw up a disillusionment charm. When Draco peeled away from the display and passed by, Harry, still under the invisibility cloak, grabbed him and pulled him in, out of view of the street. 

“FUCK. What the  _ fuck. Stupe _ \- “

Harry pulled the cloak off and pinned Draco up against the wall in one smooth motion. “Gorgeous,” he said, running a hand wonderingly over the fur around Draco’s face. He let his thumb stroke over Draco’s jaw, and Draco’s expression softened from the gentle touch. “You’re gorgeous. You look… you look so beautiful, Draco.” 

Draco sagged against Harry’s weight and let himself be pinned to the stone. “Oh.” Draco’s mouth was following Harry’s hand, and Harry turned his palm inward, surprised when Draco pressed small kisses into it. “Yes. Thank you. Harry. It’s perfect.” 

Harry felt something in his chest swell. “I’m glad you like it. Was it on your bed in the morning?”

“Ha. Yes. About that.” Draco was turning pink, and Harry tucked a bit of his blond hair behind his blushing ear. “My mother came in to give me a chocolate orange and a cup of coffee first thing, and she saw me with this great fur coat, looking  _ gobsmacked _ , Harry, and she thinks I’m dating the bloody crown princess of Norway or some such… why are you chuckling? This coat is a serious problem, Potter.”

“If you thought that, you wouldn’t be wearing it down Diagon Alley, would you?”

Draco huffed. “The damage has been done. Mother knows I’m seeing someone. This is the most over the top present I’ve ever received.”

Harry grinned crookedly. “I have another one for you, if you’d like to spend New Year’s Eve with me. I thought we could have a little party.” 

“What kind of party, exactly?”

Harry drew the vial of liquid halfway out of the mokeskin pouch. “I bought a lust potion from Blaise Zabini.” 

“Fuck, Potter. Do you have any idea what that will do to me?”

“A vague one, yes.”

“I can't take that. We haven’t.. You haven’t - “ Draco’s tongue darted out over his lips. Harry was beginning to find it endearing when Draco couldn’t tell him what he wanted, sexually. A month ago, he thought it was frustrating, like Draco was playing games with him, but he was starting to realize that Draco was all locked up with sexual inhibitions. Perhaps it was his upbringing, all stuffy and pureblooded, that gave him so much hesitation. 

“Haven’t what? Say it, or I won’t do it.”

Draco laid his head back against the wall, retreating a bit into the recesses of the cloak. “You haven’t fucked me yet, Potter. And if you give me that potion, I will,” Draco was turning pink on the high bones of his cheeks, “I will beg for it. I will beg you to do it, and you will have to, I will be so horrible until you do it.” 

Harry’s chest felt tight, and he was momentarily frozen to the spot with a spike of desire so powerful, his every nerve was set on edge. “You. You want me to fuck you?”

Draco took a breath. “Yes.” 

“What’s the problem, then?”

“Harry -” 

“I’m having trouble imagining a situation where you beg me on your hands and knees to be fucked, properly, and I don’t give you what you want.”

“We haven’t had sex yet, Potter. Full, actual, penetrative sex. I’ve never.. Never, Harry. Fuck,” Malfoy’s face was livid scarlet now, and his breathing was coming hard with the effort of talking about it.  _ This is so hard for him to say _ , Harry wondered. He had never felt shame about sex, even when he hadn’t had much experience, and he’d put that down to his natural bravery and the fact that what he’d wanted had, at least previously, been more or less vanilla and therefore easy to discuss. He’d been having sex on easy mode, but Malfoy had probably been tying himself in knots half his life over all the kinky stuff in his head. 

“You don’t want to have sex for the first time on a lust potion.”

A wave of gratitude passed over Malfoy’s face, draining it of a bit of its color. “No. I don’t.”

“Do you want to have sex with me before, then?”

Draco nodded, his eyes soft with promise. “Yes. Before. And then we’ll see each other for New Year’s, and do it again.”

“Great. We’ll have sex now then, and get it out of the way.” 

“Wh -”

Harry didn’t let Malfoy get out another word. He spun him and pressed him, hard, up against the brick wall, reinforcing the disillusionment charm and casting a  _ Muffliato _ on top of it. Draco’s cheek was ironed flat against the crumbling plaster. His own breaths were steady and even, but Draco’s were coming in nearly panicked huffs as Harry jerked the cloak aside and shoved down his cloth breeches. 

Harry expected Draco to fight back, to resist him, but he did no such thing. Even if he had, Harry was so much stronger than him that it wouldn't have made a difference. Draco's bare cheeks, exposed suddenly to the winter air, flushed pink and goose pimpled, but he shoved them back at Harry, his cock bobbing away from the roughness of the wall. Harry stroked it a couple times, glad to see it was half hard, then let go and ran his hand roughly down the cleft of his arse. He rubbed it sideways, his index finger running against Draco’s hole, and a keening sound came out of Draco’s mouth as he sagged helplessly against Harry’s left forearm, still pressing him into the red bricks. 

“Scared Malfoy? Aren’t little whores like you used to being fucked in alleys?” Harry had never said such a thing before. It was like some ruthless savage was using his mouth to speak. Malfoy whimpered, and Harry conjured lube onto his fingers, pressing into his hole with the next swipe of his hand. 

Malfoy whimpered as Harry’s fingers slipped past the ring of his anus, probing after the spot buried deep inside. “That’s right, give it up. I know it makes you feel dirty, and you like it, don’t you?” Harry added a second finger, too soon judging by Draco’s quick intake of breath, but he kept it up, spreading his fingers into the muscle and forcing it to relax. “Tell me,” Harry breathed into his ear, “tell me that it feels good.” 

The look on Draco’s face was shattered, but whether it was from lust or terror, Harry didn’t know. Didn’t care. “Please,” he begged, “please sir. I’ve never -”

“I know,” Harry said, though only a moment ago he’d been calling Draco a whore. “Never been fucked, have you, Malfoy? You must be so desperate for it. Waiting all this time.” He’d found the spot deep inside, and he rubbed his two fingers slowly over it, so that Malfoy’s cock jerked to full attention and he  _ whined _ , and the desperation of that sound, the animalism of Malfoy’s need, made him take leave of his senses. He forgot where he was, the noise of the shops and people outside, the buildings around him and his own shame, and when he came back to himself, he’d opened his pants and his cock was stung by the frigid wind. 

Harry removed his fingers from Malfoy’s hole, but kept his left arm pressed up on Malfoy’s shoulders, on his neck. He looked so warm, the fur of his coat and the red ring of his arse hole, and Harry’s cock was so cold, and he mindlessly pushed it forward, into Draco’s heaving cleft, into his wet heat. 

A cry tore out of Draco’s throat, along with a “please,  _ Merlin _ , please, sir,” and Harry stroked forward, the heat of Draco’s arse devastating, his cries mewling and wanton, and Harry had never felt anything like it. Draco was  _ warm _ , and something mammalian deep in Harry’s mind roared its approval at Harry’s total domination of him, at their connection in the most intimate place. He fucked him mindlessly, stroking slowly in and out, squeezing at the base of his cock to keep himself from coming, holding Draco so fast against the wall that he could neither thrust backwards nor move away, and then Draco did the only thing he  _ could _ do - he  _ squeezed _ , and Harry’s world collapsed into a singularity, his entire reality his body, his cock and the slit in it, pumping his seed into Malfoy’s hole, crying out gutturally as his rigid arms clenched up around Draco,  _ possessing _ him. 

He blinked, breathing deeply. The noise of the alley returned to him. He saw Draco pull up his breeches, a white stain on the wall in front of him. Harry’s breaths came faster. 

_ What had he done? _

Draco still hadn’t turned around. He lay his forehead on the wall, and remained still.

_ It was his first time, _ Harry thought frantically.  _ His first time and I.  _

_ Oh God, did I -  _

Harry replayed how Draco had reacted, what he’d said. Had he liked it? Had he begged Harry out of pleasure, out of need, or had it been - had Harry really - 

Where had this come from, this desire to violate, to dominate, to conquer?  _ It isn’t new _ , a voice whispered to him,  _ you’ve always wanted this from him.  _

If this was what Harry had always wanted, then what did that mean about him - was he evil, should Draco be protected from him? Was Draco - had he consented to this, entirely? 

Struck by the enormity of what he’d done, of the  _ crime _ he’d just committed in this alley, Harry hastily did up his pants, and said, “I’m going home. I have to -”

He disapparated. 

\---------------------------

Harry walked through the field beyond the apparition point back into The Burrow. He ignored  Hermione, rolling out dough in the kitchen, and hurried up to George and Fred’s room, where he’d been staying for the holiday week. He lay down, starfished out on the sheepskin rug and tried to imagine it burying him, winding its long fibers around his head, his body, all his shame, until he couldn’t think about how twisted he was anymore. 

He had only been there a quarter of an hour, enough time to halfway calm himself, when a sharp knock sounded on the Burrow’s front door, and Harry’s heart leapt back up into his throat, hammering so hard he thought he was going to choke. 

_ Fuck _ , he though, bounding down the stairs,  _ fuck, please don’t let it be -  _

It was. It was Draco. Draco Malfoy was standing in the doorway, in his fox fur coat. 

Hermione had answered the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos, they have really motivated me to complete the fic! More chapters coming soon - I have them written in my head, just need to get them down.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to reddit user BackwardsDaydream, who posted a SUPER hot idea for this chapter in my favorite subreddit. Hope you enjoy!

Draco sat before Harry on the sheepskin rug in Fred and George’s room, looking flawless. 

He hadn’t taken off his fur coat, and it splayed out around his body lightly, as if it was made of silk. His hair was faintly tousled and his lips were blood red. He chewed on them delicately, like there was something there in his mouth, delicious and bitter, waiting to be either spat out or swallowed whole. 

He looked at Harry and  _ fuck _ , his eyes were red from crying and Harry couldn’t  _ believe _ he’d let himself - 

“I’m so sorry, Draco, don’t -”

Before he could get out another word of apology, Draco had launched himself forward into Harry’s lap, his head on top of Harry’s crossed legs, his arms clutching around his waist. “Potter, don’t be sorry. Please. You should - everything you did was perfect. It was perfect.”

Harry felt his face twist up, something ugly choking him. “It was your first time, and I’m sorry, I should never have -”

“It was perfect, Harry. It was exactly what I’ve always wanted.” Harry could scarcely believe that was true, but Draco’s face was terribly sincere. “I asked you for it, but you’ve always given it to me.”

Harry gave a small laugh, and it sounded wet in his throat. “I haven’t give you  _ that _ .”

“No.” Draco sat up, his hair still tousled and falling past his shoulders, and Harry gave into a desperate impulse and tucked a bit of hair behind his blushing ear. Draco closed his eyes. “But you’ve always found a way to stick it to me, haven’t you? That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you, Harry.”

“You’ve always wanted me to hold you up against a wall and fuck you.” 

Draco’s eyes were opened and he was looking at Harry like he was two knuts short of a galleon, the way he always seemed to whenever they spoke about sex. “I’ve always wanted your  _ attention _ , you towering idiot. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to… to have so much of it that you force me into sex in an alley. Stop laughing!”

Harry felt himself grinning, despite himself. “You’re sure it was alright? It felt right. It always feels right,” Harry said, his voice getting quieter as he realized it was true, “when we’re in the middle of it. But how am I supposed to know if I’ve taken it too far? I’ve never done this, Draco, I’m not - I’m not like you, I haven’t spent any time thinking about how to dominate someone.”

Draco looked sharp, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! Only that - that you’ve had time to thing about this sort of arrangement, having sex this way, and I’m going only on my instincts, and I don’t trust them.”

“Well, you should,” Draco said. “You have impeccable instincts. I should know, I’ve been on the sharp end of them enough before this. And if you ever hurt me, or pushed me too far, I’m a wizard, Harry. I could throw up a spark at you, or a shield, even if I didn’t have a wand. I’m not  _ helpless _ .” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry said. “It’s not like I put you in a body bind and stomped on your nose, for example.” Draco slapped at him, looking murderous. “What kind of awful person would - stop slapping me, Hermione will think we’ll fighting and come in here -” 

_ Shit.  _ Hermione. “Draco.” Draco had buried his face against Harry’s neck, and Harry caught his wrists. “Draco, there’s something you should know.”

“Mmmm,” Draco hummed, relaxing into Harry’s grip. 

“Hermione was with me when I bought the coat.” 

Draco stiffened. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. She was there, and she asked if it were for someone I was seeing, and I said yes, and now she knows that -”

Draco swore, loudly. “I  _ told _ you Potter, this has to stay between us. If my mother finds out I’m gay she will be  _ so miserable _ , I’m her only chance of - and if Hermione knows every Weasley will know, and it will be in the papers and I’ll be sacked from the team, Harry this is a  _ disaster,  _ oh  _ fucking hell _ -”

“Calm down.” Harry commanded him. “No, stop it. I’ll take care of it, and no one else will know.”

“What do you mean you’ll take care of it, there’s no taking care of it…”

“Stop,” Harry told him again, his voice going deep and low. “I told you I would take care of it, and I will.”

Draco looked at him, grateful, and so utterly calm. Harry wondered what it would be like to have someone bigger and more powerful take care of his little problems, and he almost envied Draco before he realized how good it felt to be the person taking care of him. He drew Draco into a hug, his coat spooling out behind him on the sheepskin rug.

“Don’t worry about it any longer.”

“Alright,” Draco said. “I won’t.”

“Promise me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir. I promise. I won’t worry about it.”

“Good.” Harry said, stroking his fingers through Draco’s blond hair. “Would you still like to see me on New Year’s Eve?”

Draco looked up hopefully. “Yes.” Harry looked at him expectantly. “Yes,  _ sir _ . I would.”

“I thought we could go somewhere warm. It’s too bloody cold in Scotland this time of year, we should go to a beach before we have to play outside in the freezing weather. Would you like to go to Miami?”

“Fuck. Yes, I’d like to go to Miami.” 

“Great, then it’s settled. I’ll send you a portkey, and we’ll meet there.”

“Alright,” Draco said, sitting back and reaching into his pocket, drawing out a box wrapped in red tissue paper, and tied with a golden bow. “I went back to the flat and picked this up. I would have given it to you earlier, but I didn’t know we’d be… meeting, in Diagon.” 

Harry felt the ugly thing in his throat tighten back up. “Draco, that’s… you didn’t have to.” 

Draco pouted. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry said, as he took it and began to unwrap the box. Inside was another box, made of black velvet, and inside the velvet box was - 

“Er,” Harry said. “What is it, exactly?” 

A sterling silver snake lay on a bed of velvet, its emerald green eyes glinting up at him. It looked oddly alive. 

“Say something to it. Tell it to do something.”

“ _ Hello _ ,” Harry said. “ _ Can you, er, wiggle?”  _

The snake took off wiggling out of its box and across the floor to Harry’s feet, where it looked up at him. 

Harry laughed.  _ “Can you crawl up my arm?”  _ The snake writhed onto his arm and fixed itself, bracelet-like, around his wrist. It looked attractive, carved with delicate patterns and sparkling green. 

“You can ask it to spy for you, as well,” Draco cut in. “You can send it into a room and have it tell you anything that’s said while you’re gone. It can follow someone if you’d like, attach itself to their broomstick or hide in their carrying case or the lining of their robes and then tell you where they’ve gone, who they’ve seen and what they’ve said. It’s been in the family for centuries.” 

Harry looked up, shocked. “Draco, I can’t accept this from you. It’s an heirloom, I could never -”

Draco shook his head. “None of us can use it, not anymore,” Draco said. “You weren’t - you weren’t speaking English to it, just now.” 

It dawned on Harry how unique of a gift this was - something only Draco could have given him, and only he could use. Suddenly he felt like the cloak was inadequate. “I’ll - thank you, Draco. This is fantastic. I’m going to - fuck, I’m going to keep this thing forever.”

The thing on his arm hissed at him in displeasure. “You shouldn’t call it a thing. It has a name,” Draco said. “Serpens.”

“ _ Hello, Serpens _ ,” Harry said, and was rewarded with a contented flick of the snake’s tongue, which appeared to be inlaid with tiny rubies. “Draco, I can’t tell you how nice this is. I  _ can’t _ thank you enough.”

“You can,” said Draco, a hint of dark expectation in his tone. “You will. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

Harry nodded, his own voice darkening, husky. “Will you be a good boy for me while you’re gone?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Will you touch yourself while you’re gone?”

Draco shook his head, Harry’s hand following it back and forth, still gripping his hair. “No, sir. I won’t touch myself.” 

“That’s right. You’ll be waiting for me, won’t you.” 

“Yes sir. Only -” Draco’s voice choked a bit, he was so aroused. “Only for you, sir.” 

There was nothing for it but to take Draco back out through the kitchen and to the apparition point past the garden. They walked downstairs in silence. 

Harry stopped short as he rounded the corner into the kitchen and found Hermione and Ron engaged in a furiously whispered conversation that abruptly ended as soon as he and Draco came into view. 

“Harry,” said Hermione, sounding overly bright. “Malfoy. We were just leaving.”

Ron stared at them, transparently aghast, his face entirely white. He appeared to be fixed in horror to his chair, staring blankly into the middle distance. 

“Ron,” Hermione said, walking towards the sitting room. “Ron!”

Ron still appeared to be fixed in horror to his chair, staring blankly into the middle distance. 

“Never mind, Granger. I’m on my way out,” Draco said, nodding coolly at the both of them, but for all his apparent self-mastery, Harry could see he was shaking. “It was a pleasure, Weasley.”

Hermione stood winding her fingers around each other nervously, and Ron continued to stare at them absently as Harry and Draco made their way out. Harry opened the door for Draco, and held it as Draco stepped through it. 

“I’ll send an owl tomorrow,” Harry said. “Write me when you get it.” 

Draco turned to look back at him, gentle and dazed. “Yes, sir.” 

As soon as he’ said it, Draco went red with the humiliation of having called Harry “sir” in front of his friends. Harry heard Hermione gasp behind him.  _ Oh well _ , thought Harry.  _ In for a penny, in for a pound _ . He gave Draco a loose grin. “I’ll see you, Draco,” he said, and he shut the door. 

When he turned around, Ron had gone even paler, if that were possible. Even his freckles were void of color. 

“Mate,” he said, “there is absolutely no way I can process the last ten minutes of my life.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. “I’m. Er. I’m sorry?”

“You’ve  _ no  _ need to be sorry, Harry,” Hermione said, walking over to him and placing a small hand on his forearm. “If you’d like to… to date Malfoy, we love you, don’t we Ron, and we’ll be alright with it. Him. We’ll be alright with him.”

“Speak for yourself!” said Ron, roused out of his stupor. “He’s a death eater, Hermione, I’m not having him round to tea.” 

“Yes, you bloody well are, Ron Weasley,” Hermione said, ferociously. “Harry has sacrificed too much for us - for  _ everyone _ , Ron, and he deserves whatever makes him happy, and we absolutely will -”

“Don’t bother, Hermione,” Harry cut in. “Draco… he doesn’t want this to be a public thing. He’s worried it will get out to the press, to his parents, and we’re seeing each other privately. Which is why I’m going to ask you both to not speak about this anymore, to anyone. Especially not Draco.”

“That will be no problem at all,” Ron said, as he stood up and marched swiftly out of the room. “You can count on me to pretend this never fucking happened.” 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said, wretchedly. “I wish you’d told me.” 

“Hermione, he’s insisting that we keep it a secret. I couldn’t.” 

Hermione looked galled. “A  _ secret _ ? Are we in third year again? Aren’t you good enough for him, Harry? Doesn’t he know how lucky he is, for a person like him to -”

“Stop it,” Harry said, on the verge of crying but fiercely trying not to. “He’s not - a  _ person like him _ , he’s not low, he’s my boyfriend, and he’s just - just nervous, is all, that things will go sideways if it gets out.” At least, that’s what Harry had been telling himself, but somewhere deep, Hermione had struck a nerve. Was Draco ashamed of him? 

_ Oh God _ , thought Harry, sinking into a chair.  _ He won’t tell his mother. He is ashamed of me _ . 

Hermione put a hand on his shoulder, and Harry let a tear fall onto the heavy wood of the Weasley’s kitchen table. 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

“Holy shit Potter, you look so hot.”

Harry smiled and opened his hands with a quick flick of his wrists, gesturing to the all-white, tailored suit he was wearing with the eggplant-colored button down. “I got the idea from Scarface. You probably don’t watch muggle movies, but my cousin watched it over the summer one year on the telly, and I thought it would look good in a beach club.” 

Draco’s eyes were still feasting on Harry, and he reached out his hands and ran them over the bulges in Harry’s arms underneath the stark white fabric, running his hands to his neck, where his tanned skin stood out against the suit’s perfect brightness. 

Draco’s fingers slid closed around the back of Harry’s neck, and he tilted his head upwards for a kiss. Harry leant down and gave it to him, a sweet peck on the lips, followed by one a little deeper, slower. Draco hummed. 

Harry had woken up the morning after Draco had shown up at the Burrow, and he had felt worlds better than when he had dragged himself into bed, crying secretively and hiccoughing his way to sleep. His head cleared overnight, and he’d sent Draco an owl first thing in the morning, telling him the beach club they’d be going to and suggesting possible attire. And then he had spent the next four days or so positively white-knuckling through the space between every meal, wishing fervently he were not a professional Quidditch player so he could drink away the six hours at the end of every evening, when all he had were his thoughts about Draco and what he was going to do to him when they next saw each other. 

The thought of it sent a thrill past the bottom of his stomach, and he cradled Draco’s whipcord arms, pushing him back a bit at the elbows. 

“You look… fuck Draco, you look fantastic yourself, what are you - “

“It’s called a Caftan,” Draco told him, twirling so that it spun out around his lithe body, white and a bit see-through, so that Harry could see the bright turquoise of a speedo underneath.

“It’s brilliant,” said Harry, “I never could pull something like that off, you look, I don’t know,  _ artsy _ somehow, or - “

“If you say I look like a bohemian, Potter, the date’s off.”

“I was going to go with hippie, but -”

“Even worse,” Draco said, but he smiled and grabbed a hair tie and sunglasses from a basket on the wall of his flat, and, bending at the waist, flipped his long hair right over his head and gathered it into a high top knot. “Take me off to wherever we’re going before my mother comes back from cocktails and sees us,” and Harry took his elbow in his, Draco’s bird-like, wiry arms wrapping strong around his own, and disapparated. 

\----------------------

The next five hours at the beach club passed in a massive blur, Draco’s caftan long since tossed on a sunbed and forgotten, his limbs wrapped around Harry’s, solid one moment, teasing away from him the next, until Harry got so desperate he wanted to push him into a wall and fuck him in full view of the other patrons. 

Draco seemed to be enjoying himself dancing and chatting too much to leave before midnight, so Harry bought entrance to the VIP section by the DJ booth. The sun had set by that time, but most of their compatriots in the exclusive area of the club still had their sunglasses firmly affixed to their faces, watching the laser lights with expressions of rapt ecstasy, little lines of powder scattered before them on their high tables. 

Harry had tried cocaine once, after the war, with Ron and Seamus. Hermione was in Australia. Ron had been feeling a bit low, what with Fred dying, and Harry had as well. He and Ginny had called it quits, but that didn’t bother him nearly as much as the Auror training program, the politics and the regulations and all the rules and work of it. 

Looking back, Harry knew that Seamus must have been feeling impotent after the war’s murders had carried off quite a few of his good friends, but at the time he had only seemed determined enough to have a good time, and they had gone along with it. Starting at the Leaky, they’d steadily consumed the better part of an 8 ball among themselves, Ron and Seamus getting more and more hard and chatty as the night went on, Harry retreating further into himself. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like cocaine; it was virtually impossible to dislike cocaine. Only, it’s primary effects were to make Harry feel confident and brave, which he didn’t feel was any departure from his everyday reality. What was different was that he finally felt lost in those feelings, which had only been ever, for so long, wrapped up in what he had to  _ do _ . 

Harry had spent enough time on work and duty and obligation - he was sick of anything but the sensation of life. He wanted to spend all his time whipping through the cold Scottish air on his broomstick, drinking deep from a pint on Friday night, tucking into a rare side of beef, flaying his muscles raw in the gym and sleeping between silk sheets after a hot shower, and now, holding those same muscles rigid as Draco reclined against them, his shoulders, his hard torso, as he made small talk with a pretty girl from Cuba in the booth next to him. 

\-------------------------

Somehow, Harry made it to their hotel room before doing anything unspeakable to Draco, but it was a near thing. Malfoy had spent virtually the whole evening practically naked, stripped to only his turquoise speedo, his skin somehow golden (Harry suspected he might be wearing some kind of bronzing lotion; it smelled heavenly), his hair still tied in a tight knot on the crown of his sharp head. 

At midnight, Harry had leaned in to kiss him, but Draco hadn't let him, spraying him instead in the face with a bottle of Moet. They had gone back to the hotel soaked, Harry’s white button down shirt translucent and wet. Draco looked obscene walking through the hotel lobby, every guest’s face turning towards the practically naked man, covered head to toe in champagne and glistening sweat from dancing, walking towards the elevators, Harry stalking behind him, servile, wherever he went. 

Three seconds after the door clicked shut behind them, Harry pushed him up against the wall of windows and was crushing his cock up against Draco’s right hip, holding his jaw in both his hands and kissing him like he was dying. 

“Potter,” Draco said, coming up for air, “the potion, Potter. You can give me - “

“No,” Harry said, “no, you’re not taking it.” 

“But I thought -” Draco’s voice choked off into a breathy moan as Harry assaulted his neck, biting and rubbing his stubble into the fair skin. “I thought we were going to -”

“We are,” Harry said, making hungry noises as he hoisted Draco up by the backs of his thighs, pinning him against the window so he was looking down at Harry, his calves hooked around Harry’s waist. Harry took out the vial from his pocket and held it between them. Miami’s neon lights reflected off the glassy surface. “This potion will make whoever drinks it into a slave to their own lust. Draco -” Harry gazed back up at him, his long hair tumbling across his shoulders. “Draco, your purpose isn’t to serve me. You’re not my slave.” He flicked the cap off the potion. “I’m yours,” Harry said, and tipped his head back. 

Draco shook his head. “Harry, I’m… we talked about this. I want you to use me, to treat me like - like I’m nothing. I  _ want _ that, Harry,  _ sir _ , I don’t want to be in charge. I want to be used, to be a… a toy, just for you to fuck and throw away.” 

Harry dropped the vial and brought his hand up to cradle Draco’s face. “I know. I know, Draco. I’ll treat you that way. I’ll treat you,” the potion was starting to take effect, Harry could feel the truth bubbling to the surface without any inhibition, “I’ll treat you however you want. But you have to know that’s because I’m yours, I’m your slave, I’ll do whatever you’d like, you’re gorgeous,” he was punctuating his babbling with kisses on Draco’s lips, “you’re gorgeous, and spoilt, and perfect, and I want to do this all the time,” Harry ran his hands down Draco’s chest, tweaking his nipples until he squirmed, “spoil you however you need to be spoiled. Would you like that, gorgeous?” 

Draco’s eyes were shut and his face was turned away from Harry’s, but he nodded, twisting with the pleasure of having his nipples plucked, gasping from his. “Yes, please sir,” he said. 

“Good,” Harry said, soothing, taking his hand off Draco’s chest long enough to cast a levitating charm to keep him in place, back up against the window and legs around Harry. “That’s good, you’re so good,” and Draco made a guttering sound as Harry’s hand moved down to touch his hole. “Are you ready to get fucked, gorgeous?”

Draco made a sound that was at once both terrified and pleading, and Harry cast a lubricating spell on his fingers. “Don’t worry,” Harry said, kissing his cheeks, his neck, his hair, “I’m going to get you so ready, and then I’m going to stay hard and use you with my cock for a whole hour.” 

“Yes,” Draco moaned over Harry’s shoulder, as Harry pushed a slicked up finger into him. “Please, sir, please use my hole,” he managed, before Harry twisted his finger slow inside him, and Draco let out a great breath of air. 

“That’s right,” Harry said, aiming the finger forwards inside him so that it danced over Draco’s prostate. “Get nice and loose for me. It wouldn’t do for my toy to be too tight, would it?” Draco closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, you need to be nice and loose to take my cock.” Harry stuck a second finger inside him, and Draco clung to his arms. Harry could feel his arse hole grabbing at his fingers as he drew them away. “You’re going to make me feel so good, aren’t you, pet?” 

As astonished as Harry had been last week at the degrading filth that had come out of him in Diagon Alley, he was more surprised now to hear these terms of endearment fall so easily from his lips. Harry couldn’t tell if it was the potion forcing his sweeter feelings to the surface, or if this was what had grown underneath the years of rivalry with Malfoy, now that he had started fucking him on the regular, just splitting the surface. 

“I’ll make you feel good, sir,” Draco said, “Please fuck me sir, I’ll make it good for you, I promise.” 

“You will,” he said, rubbing his fingers over Draco’s prostate until he was nearly thrashing against the glass, until his balls drew up tight and he stopped making any noise, on the verge of climax. “And you’re going to stay hard for me.  _ Serpens _ ,” Harry hissed, “ _ wrap yourself around Draco’s cock _ .” 

He had tried this at home, and it worked the same now. Serpens slid off Harry’s wrist from where he’d been waiting under the sleeve of his jacket, and he slithered onto Draco’s cock, forming a tight ring around the base and preventing him from coming. 

“Fuck,” Draco said, his orgasm frustrated at the last possible moment, “ _ Merlin _ , Potter, please let me - “

“No,” Harry said. “No, you won’t come until I’m finished with you.”

Draco’s face twisted with agony, and he fucked his cock into the empty air. “Please, sir, I -”

“I told you,” Harry said, his voice hard, “Not until I’m finished using you.” And with that, Harry finally unzipped his trousers, pulling the head of his prick out of the hole in his pants. It was so stiff it was aching, the potion heightening the need he always felt around Malfoy, amplifying every reaction so that Harry was sure he was going to come the second he put his cock inside anything at all. 

He rubbed it, marvelling at how much precome had come leaking out of the slit. It wasn’t just the normal dribble; the whole thing was slick with it, so much that he almost didn’t need lube to push inside. He thumbed it into place, Draco’s breath hitching, his eyes wide on Harry’s wet cock, one of his hands reaching down to touch it, to cradle it as Harry pushed up against his hole. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Harry said. “Are you ready? Are you ready for me to use you?” Harry slid right past the tight ring of Malfoy’s arse, popping the tip in, and Draco made a noise like Harry had never heard before. “Are you ready to feel me come inside you?”

Draco nodded, a sob escaping him. “Yes, Harry,  _ please _ come inside me.” 

Harry slid in all the way, one long, pulsing stroke that buried him to the hilt. He came. 

Draco writhed on his cock, milking it, ramming himself down on Harry’s hard length, trying to follow Harry and come himself, but the snake was wrapped tight around him, and he couldn’t manage it. 

Harry kept coming. The potion made him spurt so much into Draco that it came dribbling out immediately, falling on the floor underneath him in a puddle. But Harry stayed hard, the orgasm doing nothing to diminish his need to keep fucking. 

“Fuck,” Harry said, tipping into mindlessness, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “Fuck, Draco, that feels,” he ground his cock into him harder, rotating it rather than pulling it in and out. He wanted to keep fucking Draco endlessly, pound him into the glass all night, and he felt himself slip into a trance. 

Some amount of time passed, Draco moaning and fisting himself and rubbing, nearly clawing at his balls in frustration as Harry fucked him, but all Harry could feel and see was his cock driving into Draco’s arse, and then he shut his eyes and he didn’t feel or see anything at all. He became a machine, driven only by lust and sensation, taking, insensate. 

“Harry, please, yes,” Draco chanted, threading his fingers through his own hair at his temples and pulling hard on the roots. “I’m yours Harry, your toy, please…”

Harry was going to come again, and he did with a great groan, even more come spilling out of him into Draco. He pulled out and wanked himself, Draco suspended up against the window, his come splashing onto Draco’s stomach, his chest, and leaking out of his hole onto the cold tiles.

Both of them were silent a moment, breathing hard. A siren sounded on the street, a few dozen floors below. 

“Right,” Harry said. He released Draco from the levitating charm. “On your hands and knees. Crawl into the bed.”

Draco shut his eyes and did as he was told. Harry kicked the back of his thighs as he crawled past, but only lightly. Approaching the footstool at the end of the bed, Draco clambered onto it, then twisted around and lay flat, facing up at Harry. His chest and his face were covered in come, Harry’s come, and his cock had turned nearly purple with the need for release. 

Despite his two orgasms, Harry’s need hadn’t diminished a bit, and his own cock throbbed in sympathy. The urge to dive headlong back into Draco nearly overwhelmed him, and he shut his eyes and took two long breaths before collapsing on his back beside him. 

“Draco,” he said, both knackered and desperate to fuck the other man again. “Draco, come this way,” and he pulled his arm and legs around, too tired to speak, until Draco’s mouth was eagerly swallowing him, and his hole was right above Harry’s head. 

Harry lost track of the time. His world funneled down to the hot channel of Malfoy’s mouth, in which he was completely subsumed, and the earthy taste of his arse, which was leaking Harry’s pearlescent come as it winked at him, convulsing each time Harry’s tongue gave it a swipe. Draco was moaning and gagging on Harry’s cock, and Harry, though nearly exhausted, could think only of burying it as viciously as possible inside the wet hole it had found, could want nothing but another taste of the come he was suckling. 

His whole existence collapsed into taking what he wanted, and giving Draco as much pleasure as he could stand, and when he finally came down Draco’s throat, Harry released Serpens with a hissing sigh and  _ pulled _ at Draco with both his hands. 

Draco came with a shout, and kept coming, and Harry touched him through it, licking at him and saying “gorgeous, yes, you were perfect,” and at that, Draco started sobbing brokenly into Harry’s thighs, the bend of his groin. Harry sat up and pet his back until he finished. 

“Perfect, Draco,” Harry said, petting his hair, and Draco gave a few more shuddering cries, grabbing his own cock and milking it for the last bit of come left in it. “Do you need me to tell you how good you are, taking my cock like that?” Draco shut his eyes and nodded. Harry kept petting his hair. “Because you are, you are perfect at taking it, just perfect.” 

Draco relaxed in Harry’s lap, and Harry kept petting his head. He whispered sweet things to him, running his fingers through his long, wavy blond hair, until Draco fell asleep. 

\----------------------

The sun was far too bright next morning, but the room smelled divine. 

Draco had ordered room service. “Morning,” Draco said, sitting by the bed and dressed in a nightshirt. He was watching Harry sleep, and a faint blush covered his cheeks. “Would - would you like me to feed you? Sir?”

Harry shook his head. “No, let’s not do that right now. Let’s just lay here and be normal for a bit.” 

Draco smiled shyly, and hummed. “All right,” he said, and climbed back into bed, bringing a slice of bacon with him. “If cuddling in bed with your… what did you call me? Your ‘queer schoolmate’ is normal, then let’s do it.” 

Harry chuckled. “It’s normal. But you could feed me that bacon, if you’d really like to.” 

Draco offered it to him, and Harry made a show of biting it manically, rather like a dog, and Draco laughed and relaxed, one arm thrown over Harry and his body fast against Harry’s side. They ate companiably from the tray, passing each other food and not saying much. In between bites, Harry kissed the top of Draco’s head, and Draco squirmed. 

“Why don’t you ever do anything with your hair?” Harry asked him idly. 

“Like what, exactly?”

“You always put it in that tight topknot. Why don’t you ever, I don’t know, braid it or something?”

“You mean, why don’t I, a male professional athlete, wear my hair in pigtails, in public, like an eight year old girl?”

Harry smiled. “No, I mean, you don’t have to wear it in  _ public _ , but you could, I don’t know, you wore the  _ coat _ in public -”

“The coat was made for an  _ adult _ , Potter, and it looks perfectly normal for a wizard to wear a long, hooded cloak. It is  _ not  _ perfectly normal for a wizard to walk around looking like an alpine maiden, or a girl from a fairy tale with too much gingerbread and an evil stepwitch.” 

“Well you could wear it for me, then,” Harry said. “We’re always in private, aren’t we? You’d look good with them.” 

“I’ll take that under advisement, thank you,” Draco said snootily, grabbing a biscuit from the tray. 

“You know,” Harry said, very carefully, not sure until this moment that he had even wanted to broach the subject, “you could wear all sorts of things for me.”

“Like what?” said Draco casually, though he had gone very still, and was holding his breath. 

“I dunno,” said Harry, unsure of what Draco might like. “You could - you could wear something that made you feel pretty. Something like these.” Harry ran his hands under Draco’s nightshirt, feeling for the silk and lace he knew he would find there. “You could wear something lovely, only not underneath your clothes. You could wear whatever lovely clothes you’d like. A dress, maybe. Or a gown.” 

Draco still was holding his breath, and his voice came out squeaky. “You’d want to fuck me while I was wearing a gown?” 

“Not necessarily,” said Harry, stroking Draco’s flank under his shirt, petting the soft fabric of Draco’s knickers. “We could go to dinner maybe, or out to a show, and you could wear it there.”

Draco went completely silent at that, and Harry imagined he could feel Draco’s brain whirring through the scene, could feel his own thoughts going a mile a minute, watching Draco in a glittering dress over dinner, seeing him sit next to him primly in an opera box, his legs crossed at the ankle, his feet tucked into heels. 

“Harry -” Draco said, and as soon as he began, Harry knew he was going to be turned down. 

“It’s only a thought,” Harry said, “it doesn’t have to be a - a thing, if we don’t want it to be -”

Draco sat up and buried his head in his hands. “But I  _ do  _ want it to be, I  _ do, _ only we can’t be seen together like that, do you have  _ any  _ idea what it would be like for me to go out in public, on a date with Harry Potter, in a bloody  _ dress _ ?”

“I don’t care what people would say about me,” Harry said, placing a firm hand on Draco’s back. “I’ve been through everything in the press, with Voldemort coming back, and quitting the aurors, and getting chucked by Ginny in that pub at three in the morning, when she threw that pint in my face and I came out in my Quidditch Jersey soaked to the bone. Do you have any idea how little I care what The Daily Prophet says about my love life?”

“But what about me?” Draco said, angrily. “I would be eviscerated -”

“But you  _ want _ it, you just said you did,” Harry said, frustrated. “Be brave, for fucks sake -”

“This isn’t about bravery!” Harry looked at him. “I’m not stupid, Potter, I’m not going to sacrifice every good thing in my life to go on a date with you, whether or not I’m carrying a purse while we do it.”

“You went on a date with me last night!” Harry said, gesturing around them. “How different would it be to do this again, but in clothes that make you feel good?”

Draco shook his head, sadly. “I’ve lost my home, my reputation, the last bit of my childhood, to a  _ war _ , and all I have left is bloody  _ Quidditch - _ ”

“You have me, too,” Harry said, as calmly as he could manage, even though he was getting angry himself. “I’m good. I’m a good thing.”

Draco’s expression was tragic with jealousy. “You are the only person I’ve ever known,” Draco said, somehow shaking with both rage and admiration, “who can declare themselves unequivocally ‘good’ without any hesitation.” 

“Then you should believe me when I tell you that there’s nothing bad about going out in a dress, if that’s what you’d like to do.” 

“If we were seen here together, that would be one thing. We could explain it. It’s not like we kissed in public, we were just out at a party, Potter. If what we do got back to my mother, got back to… to the papers, to society…” 

“What would be the worst that could happen?” Harry asked, still not seeing the point. “So, it gets back to your mum that you like men. Who cares? Plenty of wizards are gay, plenty of them are a bit… eccentric, and most magical people don’t understand muggle clothing anyway. At the Quidditch world cup, fourth year? I saw loads of men walking around in dresses just because they felt more like robes.” Harry smiled at the memory. 

“But my mother knows,” Draco said. “She knows, and so do her friends.” 

“Why does that matter to you so much?” Harry asked, coaxingly. “Your mum loves you, believe me, she -”

Draco finally broke, and threw a plate from the breakfast tray straight at the wall. “Because I have to get married, Potter!” he shouted. 

Harry’s heart sank, but he kept it up. “You don’t  _ have  _ to do anything, you can -”

“Yes I do! I have to get married because I want a  _ family _ , I want someone to come home to, I want children, and if it gets out that I’m gay and dress up in women’s clothes,  _ no one _ will want to marry me. No one  _ does _ want to marry me anyway.” He stopped shouting, and now he looked so dejected that Harry wanted to wrap him up in his arms and kiss him until he was happy again, the way he’d been when they’d woken up. “I was in a… well. I made mistakes, Potter, and I’m a pariah, except among some of the old families. And they’re conservative, and I have to toe the line every step of the way if I want to find someone to marry, someone who will have me.”

Harry felt a pang of despair as he realized that Draco clearly didn’t think  _ he _ was good enough to marry or have a family with, and then shock as he realized that he wanted that, he wanted to at least be considered as an option, but clearly Draco didn’t feel that way, was only using him to get what he needed, and then he’d throw him over for a pretty pure blood to have babies with. 

“Right” Harry said, deciding in that moment to take what he could get. “Just hear me out, okay? You started in on me before I could explain everything.”

“What is there to explain? I’ve told you -”

“We can use polyjuice,” Harry said. “I’ve got an order out, from Blaise, for a version of polyjuice that will work exactly for our situation. We can go somewhere outside of Britain, and you can use a potion, and we’ll have a nice time, and you’ll get what you want.”

Draco still looked hesitant. 

“I don’t want you to feel unsafe,” Harry said. “That’s the last thing I think I’d want for a… for someone who is my sub.” It was still hard to say the words, to name exactly what they were to each other. “But I know you need this, Draco. I want to give it to you. Will you please,” Harry took one of Draco’s hands in his, “please let me do this for you.” 

Draco finally nodded, softly. “Alright.”  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

Practice the following Monday was interesting. Most of the players had backslid over the holidays into bad habits, not exercising properly and eating food that made them fat and lazy. When you were as militant as they were normally about watching their food and working out three or four hours a day, solid, it was easy to gain a boatload of weight after only a week or two away. 

Harry knew they were in for a thrashing as soon as Pucey whiffed a bludger during drills, but the trainer let them carry on for another fifteen minutes while the coaching staff grew more and more purple in the face. Finally, he’d had enough, and sent them all into the weight room for an “attitude adjustment”, whatever that meant. 

It turned out that what it meant was Harry not being able to lift his arms above his shoulders for probably a full two days. Nursing his sore muscles and drenched in sweat, he went straight out to the pitch afterwards to get back to drills. This time, they were all much more accurate, despite being about ten times as tired as when they had shown up this morning. 

Diving, ducking, and swooping in the bitter cold, Harry found himself relishing the sensation of being fagged out and frozen. He felt his cheeks getting chapped in the wind. Draco’s looked the same, red and ruddy. They wound up doing a few drills together, Harry chucking the Quaffles at him from high up on his broom. Draco ducked and dove after then, and Harry continued to pummel them down at him, trying his level best to get him to miss or strike him in the head. 

But Draco was far too good to miss. He’d worked hard since Hogwarts to get faster. Harry had worked to get bulkier. When he’d started in the professional league, he’d already gained twenty pounds from his aborted Auror training program, but he was still getting pushed around by the other seekers when they jostled for the snitch. He’d even lost his second ever game that way, getting nudged out of the way by the Cannon’s massive second stringer at the last possible second. After that, Harry had eaten a lot more in the way of meat and potatoes in the mess hall, and his steady practice in the gym had earned him muscles he never thought he’d have at the age of twenty. 

Draco was too quick to nudge out of the way, and he was too quick to miss the quaffle, and he was far too quick for a bludger. Harry admired his form as they flew, but he was determined to trip him up, so he started tossing two quaffles at once just to catch him out, and eventually he cast  _ gemino _ on them so they split in midair, becoming four and then eight. Draco laughed and caught as many as he could. 

The consequence for their fun was more drills after everyone else was dismissed for shower and lunch, and Harry didn’t even mind. He and Draco finished their practice together, and then headed in. 

When they got to the changing room, everyone had already gone off to the mess, so Harry cast a quick locking charm on the door and vanished his and Draco’s clothes away into his locker. Draco stood before him in nothing but high-waisted pink knickers. They were cotton, and his cock was tenting the front of them already, the rest of his skin covered in gooseflesh. 

Harry vanished the knickers away to his locker as well, and then bundled him into the showers to get warm. They didn’t make it out in time for lunch. 

\-----------------------

The next morning, Harry woke up and found a copy of  _ The Daily Prophet _ on his doorstep, which was odd since he didn’t get the prophet. There were also four owls outside his kitchen window, staring at him. 

The front page was a picture of him in Miami, a photo taken from a distance but zoomed in, in profile. It was a muggle photograph - it wasn’t moving, so all the viewer could catch was the side of his face and his arm propped up against the wall, dancing with the person in front of him. 

It was Malfoy, Harry knew, but clearly the Prophet didn’t, because the photographer hadn’t caught a clear picture of his face. The image only showed Draco from behind, and all one could see of him was his long hair caught in a topknot, his slender neck, and his flowing caftan. 

The headline read, “Who is Potter’s Mystery Girlfriend?”

Harry snorted and grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the table.  _ Today will be fun _ , he thought, and took the first letter from the owl. 

It was from Clarence, the owner of the Magpies.  _ Harry,  _ it read.  _ Congrats on your date. Let us know if you want to use our PR department to release a statement. Cheers. _

Harry scrawled a quick,  _ No, but thanks _ , on the note and returned it with the owl. 

The next one was from Hermione. Her owl watched him ferociously as he opened the letter.

_ Harry, please let me know a time we can all speak to you about this. Molly doesn’t know who it is in the picture, but she is devastated. You know she was still hoping that you and Ginny -  _

Harry crumbled up the note and waved her owl off. The owl wouldn’t go, however, so Harry had to pick it up and bodily shove it back out the window. 

The last two owls were nearly identical. They were both Eagle owls, with slightly different coloring. 

Harry sighed and opened the grey owl’s letter first. It was from Draco. 

_ Do you have any idea what this is going to do to my mother, Potter? She is going to have a conniption fit.  _ Serpens _ is on your arm, she will know immediately it’s me that you’re dancing with. Write me back. No, don’t. We can’t talk about this now; I’m having a mental breakdown. I’ll see you at practice.  _ _ Don’t mention anything at practice.  _

_ -DM _

Harry had never noticed before that Draco was cute when he was frantic. He wanted to laugh, but it got stuck in his throat and turned into something else. The horrible feeling that Draco was ashamed of him wanted to return, but he abruptly buried it. 

With great apprehension, he opened the last letter. It was from Draco’s mother. He had somehow, in the space of going from fucking her son to… liking her son, become afraid of her, not for his own sake, but for Draco’s. It didn’t seem like she gave Draco very much space to be himself, and it made Harry feel claustrophobic.

He was anticipating something along the lines of “please stop seeing my precious son, heir to all I possess and final scion of the family name,” but that wasn’t the general thrust of the letter at all. 

_ Mr. Potter,  _

_ I am most honored by your apparent attentions to my son, Draco, at a New Year’s Eve party mentioned in the papers.  _ (Harry did manage a laugh at how delicately she managed to refer to being splashed across the front page, grinding up against Draco at an American nightclub.)  _ While your interest in each other is unorthodox, I can assure you it is not without precedent in our traditional circles.  _

_ I would be happy to see you for tea to discuss the matter further. Would you meet me at my residence in Kensington, tomorrow at two o’clock, for tea?  _

_ Much obliged,  _

_ Narcissa Malfoy _

Harry scrawled the word “ _ Yes”  _ on the back of her letter and handed it back to the last owl. 

\-------------------------

It was raining and a bit cold when Harry arrived back at the Kensington flat. He had been here previously at night, to pick up Draco for their date in Miami, but now in the gray light of the afternoon he saw how lovely and tidy it was. It was small, but all white, with ivy crawling up past the right side of the door and pretty winter flowers blooming in baskets outside the window. 

He reached out to ring the doorbell, but before he could, the door swung open of its own accord. 

Harry entered and looked around the front hallway. He expected an old family like the Malfoys would have a house elf to greet him, but none appeared. Instead, a coat rack scooted itself obligingly forward and gestured with one of its hooks for his coat. Harry handed it over, and then a statue of a small dog trotted out in front of him, huffed twice in his direction, and trotted right back out into the hallway. 

Harry shrugged and followed it.  _ Heaven forbid the Malfoys answer their own door _ , Harry thought. Even without their manor and their servants, it appeared they couldn’t possibly lower themselves to such middle class indignities. 

The dog sat on its haunches outside a perfectly white wooden door. Harry took a breath and turned the handle. 

Inside the room, Narcissa Malfoy reclined on a chaise lounge, easily petting the head of a small, brown crup, a tea service laid in front of her. Draco sat across from her with his back to the door, his spine so rigid that it at no point made contact with the back of the chair. Harry could see his face in profile, and it was a mask, just as stiff as his posture, revealing nothing. 

“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said, standing and gesturing to an armchair. “Do sit down. It is a pleasure to see you.” 

Draco stood as he entered. Harry wondered whether he should… bow, or something. Everything was suddenly so formal. Growing up in Little Whinging, he never knew anyone fancy enough for these sorts of manners; even if he’d been raised by his parents, they never would have acted like this meeting a boyfriend or a girlfriend of his. He felt like he was entering a business meeting, or a solicitor’s office. Draco and Narcissa were both dressed in elegant clothing that looked like it had been starched to within an inch of its life, and Harry wore the trainers and denims he had found stuffed in his messy locker after drills.

Despite that, he refused to feel out of place. He took a seat. “May I?” he asked, reaching for a biscuit. 

Narcissa inclined her head. “Of course.” 

The three of them lapsed into silence. The biscuit was quite good. Harry picked up another and looked from Narcissa to Draco. They watched him, neither speaking. 

Harry waited. 

Draco broke first. “Mother. You’ve invited Harry here. Presumably you wish to tell him something.”

Narcissa smiled, and Harry was reminded of a cat stalking a bird. “I do.” She said nothing more. 

Draco pinked up with exasperation. Harry smiled around his biscuit. This was more entertaining than he thought it would be. 

“Would you please,” Draco said, his tone seething, “get on with it, then?”

“Manners, Draco,” Narcissa chided him. She took her time pouring herself a cup of tea. She poured two more, one for Harry, one for Draco, and removed the lid of the sugar bowl. For all Draco’s insistence in his letter that she would be having a fit over their picture in the paper, she seemed dangerously calm. 

Finally, she began to speak. “I was quite surprised to see you in the paper, on a - date, you would call it - with my son.”

Harry didn’t respond. She continued. 

“I understand this sort of thing is more common these days,” she said, stirring her tea carefully, “but it was not unheard of when I was young either.” 

Harry decided to let her keep talking as long as she wished. She appeared to be working up to her point. 

“Before we proceed, may I ask,” she said, looking at him directly, “what exactly your feelings are towards my son?” 

“I think he’s pretty,” Harry said, with a mouthful of biscuit. Some of the crumbs from it sprinkled down from his lips onto the carpeting. Next to him, he heard Draco splutter into his tea cup.

“Ah,” Narcissa said, for the first time appearing slightly off balance. “Yes.” 

Harry wasn’t going to help her along, and Draco had turned a deep shade of purple and was trying his level best to hide his entire face behind his saucer without appearing to be doing so. This was the most entertaining afternoon he’d spent in ages. Harry took a loud sip of tea and waited for her. 

It was a few moments before Narcissa mastered herself well enough to speak again. “I’m sure you are aware, Mr. Potter, that Draco has a duty. To his line.” She gazed at him. Harry gazed back, as if he was entirely  _ not _ aware of Draco’s duties, to his line or otherwise. 

“He has a  _ duty _ , Mr. Potter, to marry and sire children. Heirs. We are the last of the family. The last of the Malfoys. The last of the Blacks, and -”

“You’re not the last of the Blacks,” Harry said. His grip on his cup was so tight that his knuckles had turned white. “Andromeda and Teddy. They’re Blacks.”

Narcissa looked about to argue the point, but conceded more quickly than Harry expected.  _ What does she want from me, that she is willing to avoid an argument so easily? _ he wondered. 

“Be that as it may, family is - I hardly have to tell  _ you _ this, Mr. Potter - the most important part of life. Draco, please tell me your thoughts.” She turned to her son. “Do you intend, one day, to have children?” 

“Mother, this is hardly the venue for Harry and I to discuss such a thing.” 

Narcissa nodded, her eyes icy and her voice iron. “Please Draco, humor me. I only want to help you be happy.” 

Draco sighed. “Alright, yes. Yes, I would like to have children. I - I have always. Always wanted children.” He shot a sideways glance at Harry, and Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling he couldn’t name. 

Narcissa’s voice cut into his suddenly swimming thoughts. “And you, Mr. Potter?” 

“Of course,” Harry said, not moving his eyes from Draco’s face. “I want a family. They were taken from me.” 

“Under circumstances we  _ all  _ regret.” For the first time, Narcissa’s tone softened. “We - Draco and I, we have been meaning to tell you -”

Harry waved his hand, still watching Draco, who had turned his attention to nibbling a petit four, and was looking steadily more frayed by the conversation. “It’s doesn’t - it’s not relevant to this,” Harry said. “I want children, I want a half dozen of them, I want to fill up my house with them,” Harry felt a swelling feeling in his chest, felt like he was on the verge of declaring something, and Draco’s breaths were coming faster and faster, but as Harry spoke, Draco looked more and more heartbroken, as if a sob was trying to wrack its way out of his body. 

Harry stopped speaking, perplexed. “Yes, and I think you’ve identified the crux of the issue,” Narcissa said. “Thank you. As you both want children, a public relationship between you is impossible.”

“What?” Harry asked. “What do you mean, impossible? We can still - I mean, there are ways, if it came to that, if Draco would - would have me - we could,” 

“I have no doubt, knowing my son as I do, and his long obsession with you,” at this, Harry felt his heart  _ actually _ stop beating for a moment, unable to process what she meant, “that he would have you, Mr. Potter. But him doing so would make having a family, for you both, impossible. Children,  _ Harry _ , would be impossible.” Harry tried to interrupt her. “No, please. Allow me to speak. If you are publicly in a relationship, how would my son ever find a match? Our reputation is - difficult - already. Plenty of pure bloods would still marry him, at least, from the old families, but they would  _ certainly _ not be willing to make a marriage arrangement with an openly gay, ex Death Eater.” 

“How can you  _ say  _ that about him? About your  _ son?  _ As if he’s - damaged goods! You’re his mother, you should be on his side! _ ” _

“I am being realistic, Mr. Potter!” For the first time, she raised her voice. “In my parent’s generation, and in the old days, purebloods found a suitable match, produced heirs, and carried on with whomever they chose.  _ Privately _ .” She paused, gathering herself. “And that is precisely what you and Draco will do. Or at least, what Draco will do. He will marry someone who is amenable to that kind of understanding. He will produce children. And you will be able to - to see each other privately, if you wish. I will give your relationship my blessing, you will be welcome to participate in our family life, you will -”

“And what if I don’t want that?” Harry asked, fuming. “What if I told you I’d rather have children with Draco, then? If we raised them together?” 

Draco looked at him, wide-eyed. Narcissa scoffed. “There are some things that aren’t possible, even with magic. Male pregnancy is only possible with Veela lineage, and there is no documented Veela in either the Black or Malfoy family trees for the last thirty seven generations. That’s as far back as the records go, and there is no reason to suppose - “

“Oh, wizards are so bloody arrogant,” Harry cut in. “Gay muggles have been having -”

“I have not invited you into my house to argue, Mr. Potter. I will not allow you to destroy my son’s future happiness. He is - he is all I have.” A tear leaked down her face. 

Harry tried very hard to make his tone calm, though his voice was shaking. “Mrs. Malfoy, if you would only listen for a moment, it is entirely possible - “

“Harry,” Malfoy said, his voice quavering. “Harry, she’s - she’s right, we can’t possibly -”

Harry turned on him, his anger finally cracking to the surface. Draco was taking his mother’s side, he was ashamed of Harry, he wanted to hide him, and he was being  _ disobedient _ \- “You. Stop talking.” Draco shut his mouth so quickly, his teeth clicked together. “I listen to you. I do whatever you like. Everything you could want, every last kinky thing in your head, I give it to you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Narcissa stand from her reclining position on the sofa. “I think it’s time for me -” she said, hesitating. 

“You let your family keep you on such a short leash, Malfoy,” Harry was striding forward, crowding Malfoy a bit back into his chair. “That’s not how this is going to work. If you want to be on a leash, fine,  _ but I am going to be holding it _ .”

“Excuse me,” Narcissa said firmly, and walked so quickly from the room, she might have disapparated. 

“Have I not given you everything you’ve asked?” 

“You have,” Draco said. “Harry, you have.” 

“And what have you given me?” Harry asked him, tears in his face and his voice breaking. He was aware of how petulant he sounded, but he didn’t care now Narcissa was gone. He felt like he was cracking open. 

“What do you want me to give you?” Draco asked, his lips white. “Tell me and I’ll do it. Please.”

_ “Loyalty _ ,” Harry hissed at him through a throatful of tears. “I want  _ loyalty _ , Draco. And you’re incapable of it. You and your whole pureblooded society, none of you understand how important that is.” 

“Oh, I’m incapable of loyalty because I was raised traditionally?” Draco was angry now, and stood up from the chair. He pushed - he actually  _ pushed  _ Harry back away from him. “I’m so inhuman, I can’t love you the way you want, because of my  _ blood status _ . You’re such a self-righteous hypocrite, Potter. You’re insufferable -” 

“You can’t,” Harry said, finally. “Or you won’t. Doesn’t matter. Go marry a pureblood and get someone else to fuck you and throw you around, Draco. I can’t.”

Harry strode from the room. The little dog was still waiting outside, and trotted out after him until Harry left through the front door, seeing him out. 


	14. The Wedding

“I hate to say it, Harry, but I’m not surprised,” Ron said, taking a swig of his butterbeer. 

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said, glumly. “That’s very helpful.” 

Hermione looked at Ron accusingly from across their bar table. “What?” he exclaimed. “He was dating Draco Malfoy. _Malfoy_ , Hermione,” he emphasized, “you know, the bloke who called you a Mudblood, whose auntie carved up your arm in his front hall?” 

“Ron, we’ve talked about this. We don’t bring up war stories in mixed company.” She nodded in Seamus and Dean’s direction, who were both looking decidedly pale and as if they were trying and failing to avoid looking at her forearm. “It puts people off their night out,” she said, as if she were reminding him to put out the crumpets for tea time. She turned to Harry. “Can you tell me what happened, Harry? Only, it seemed -”

“It doesn’t matter what it seemed, Hermione, we’re not compatible, end of story.”

“Alright, Harry,” she said, though Harry knew she was far from dropping the matter entirely. 

“We need to think productively about this,” said Ron. “Harry’s just chucked his - whatever Malfoy was - “

“Secret boyfriend.” Seamus said, smirking. 

“Precisely,” said Ron. “And he’s looking a bit down in the mouth about it. We’re his mates, and we’re going to cheer him up.”

“Here here,” said Neville, arriving with a round of firewhiskey shots. 

“Listen, I know you got caught by the photographers last time,” started Dean, hesitantly, “but that club just down Knockturn Alley, Seamus and I went to it last week and it’s… well, you’ll be spoilt for choice, Harry, if you’d like, we could take you looking.”

Hermione was outraged. “Harry has broken up with someone he was taking rather seriously, Dean - I highly doubt that he would like to go looking for a random person to take home and shag.” 

While she was speaking, Harry hastily chugged the rest of his beer and downed the shot Neville had put in front of him. He set ten galleons on the table to cover their tab. “I’m going,” he said. “Dean, Seamus, are you coming?” 

Both of them grinned wide and donned their coats. Hermione rolled her eyes. 

\------------------------

Dean and Seamus were right. Harry was spoiled for choice. The club was bouncing with people, dancing and eyeing each other up from across the room. 

Harry sat at the bar, but only ordered drinks for Seamus and Dean. He gave his best impression of looking entirely bored while his friends went out and chatted up girls for him. After about fifteen minutes, they brought one over. 

She was tall, and had long, brown hair, but it was shaved on one side and thrown over her shoulder on the other. She was wearing black boots and a flowing olive green robe that stopped mid thigh. 

“Hi,” she said. “Katherine.”

“Harry,” he said, taking her hand. He wanted to smile at her, but he thought she’d like it more if he didn’t. 

She smirked, and huffed out a little laugh. “I know who you are,” she said, amused. 

Harry never knew what to say to that. “Okay,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

“Yes please,” she said. “Vodka cranberry.” 

Harry ordered and set the drink in front of her when it came. “So. What do you do, Katherine?” 

“I’m a mediwitch,” she said. “Third year.” 

“What’s that like?” 

“I like it,” she said. “It’s exhausting. But I like working with people. Lots to do. What about you?”

“I play Quidditch,” Harry said. 

“Oh right, dumb question. I knew that.” Katherine smiled at him. Her eyes were just as brown as her hair, warm and earthy. “Do you like it?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, it’s fun.” 

Katherine frowned, taking in Harry’s apparent dejection for the first time. “Doesn’t look like it’s fun. What’s wrong?”

Honesty was always the best policy in these situations. “I’ve chucked the person I’m dating, and I want a quick shag to forget about it.” 

“I could help you there,” Katherine said, brightly. She looked back at the group she’d come from. “If you’d like, my friend Lauren could join us? She’s got your Quidditch picture hung up at her desk at work.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Harry, making eye contact with the blonde woman, who must be Lauren, looking his way. He gestured with two fingers towards her, and she came over to them, looking cautiously overjoyed. Harry put five more galleons down on the bar and walked out with them, trying and failing to smile, one under each of his arms. 

\--------------------------

Once they arrived back at his flat in Scotland, the next three hours passed in a blur. There were four tits, _four_ of them, and Harry took his time sucking on each one of them. He had Katherine and Lauren lie next to each other so that they faced him in a pleasing row, nibbling at each brown, long nipple until they were sopping wet.

Katherine and Lauren were evidently in some kind of previous relationship, somewhere between friends and partners. They kissed each other and touched each other just as much as they touched Harry, just as much as he touched them. They ran their fingers through each other's hair; Katherine liked tugging on Lauren’s blonde ponytail, and the sight of that made something pang hard and lonely in Harry’s chest. 

He grabbed Lauren and arranged their limbs until Harry was fucking her from behind. Her cunt was wet, and he was so desperately hard it felt like he was melting ice cream with a hot poker as he pushed into her. Katherine lay beneath them, and Lauren licked her clit messily. 

Not ten hours before, Harry had taken, by owl delivery, the bespoke potion that he had ordered from Blaise for Draco. It was the modified Polyjuice potion. It would have given Draco… well, so much of what was in front of him, the round curves and the breasts with the large nipples. 

But Draco would have had a cock for Harry to pull on, and the word “sir” would have been falling from his lips, and the whole lot of their nastiness would have been between them, all the mocking and humiliation, and when Harry came, his eyes were shut tight. 

The next morning, Harry had a sinking feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake in telling Draco to find someone else to fuck him. What if Draco was out right now, doing just that? Harry would have to murder whomever it was, of course, or at least hurt them very badly, but that wouldn’t change Draco’s freedom at this very moment to suck whichever cock caught his fancy, to call some other man the things he called Harry....

Harry couldn’t stand the feeling that crawled across his skin, just thinking about Draco with another man. He shoved it down. He shoved it down, he thanked the girls for an excellent evening, he took them to the shop and bought them both coffees, and then he walked down the road to the practice facility, where he lost his late morning and early afternoon to the rowing machine. 

\-----------------------

Four days later was the first Quidditch match of the new year, and Harry was on edge and feeling deadly as he put on his gear, stubbornly ignoring Malfoy a few benches down, doing the same.

Harry could _feel_ Malfoy’s gaze on the back of his head. He knew that Malfoy was more or less trying to bore a hole into his skull with his eyeballs, but every time he turned his way, Malfoy looked abruptly down at his boots. 

There had been a _Prophet_ article, not two days ago. It wasn’t on the front page, but there was a full spread in the society section. A photographer _had_ been in Knockturn Alley. That photographer had the good fortune of selling a photo to the newspaper of Harry with two very pretty young mediwitches leaving the nightclub, looking at once both wolfish and apathetic. 

For once, Harry had been viciously happy to be in the papers. Draco read the society section religiously. He was gruesomely pleased, as he read over the article, to see speculation that the blonde woman he’d left with might be his mystery date from Miami, and also that the photograph accentuated a slight bulge in his denims. As he had read it over breakfast, Harry had hoped Draco would be eaten alive by jealousy. 

Jealousy wasn’t the vibe he was feeling at the moment from Draco, however. It was sharper, more self-righteous. Harry had been aiming to say “serves you right,” to a very contrite Draco when they next saw each other, but instead, Draco was acting as if _he_ was the injured party, not Harry. The thought that Draco might possibly consider himself in the right filled Harry with a bubbling indignation. 

He rifled through his messy locker, looking for his gloves. They were hiding under some track pants he’d forgotten were stashed in there, and he was so distracted trying to get them on, it was a solid three minutes before he realized he’d been trying to shove the left glove onto his right hand. 

Harry took a deep breath. This lack of focus before a match was never a good sign. He had to get his head in the game, or he wouldn’t catch the snitch. 

To make matters worse, one of the chasers had a shoulder injury, and Draco was starting. Harry would be forced to try and ignore him the whole game, which was a near impossibility. Draco’s hair was tied differently, half of it up in a topknot, the rest flowing loose down his back, rounding past his sharp cheekbones and cupping his shoulders, right where Harry would like to grab him and give him a good shake. 

They all hoisted their brooms onto their shoulders and made their way into the tunnel underneath the stands. Harry marched along in stony silence. 

It was a home game, so the announcer called each of them by name to come onto the pitch; the fans cheered them individually as they did a signature trick on their brooms. One by one, the other players were called out, until it was Harry and Draco left alone in the tunnel. 

Draco wasn’t going to let that opportunity slide by, apparently. 

“I can’t believe you had the nerve to lecture _me_ about loyalty, and then go off and fuck two perfect strangers.” 

Harry scoffed. “What was I supposed to do, take a vow of chastity?” 

“You could have at least come and spoken to me about - “

“About what? Everything that needed to be said was said, Draco. End of story.” 

“Excuse me?” Draco had the nerve to look injured. “We had a fight at my mother’s tea, you stormed out and went… on a rampage, apparently, while I was left holding the bag, wondering if I’d ever hear from you again.” 

Harry was so quick to anger. He knew it was a fault of his, and he didn’t care; he needed Draco to hurt. “There wasn’t anything to wonder about, Draco. I broke up with you because you’re a coward. We’ve nothing left to say to each other, unless you suddenly, by some miracle, manage to be brave enough to stand by me in public.” 

Draco looked shell-shocked. Distantly, the announcer was calling his name, but Draco was rooted to the spot. “So. So that’s how you’re - you’re ending this.”

Harry felt his anger burning his fingertips, prickling behind his eyes. “You don’t seem to see this from my perspective, Malfoy, so let me spell it out for you. I went to meet your mother, and when she asked me what I wanted with you, I as good as told her I’d be alright if we - if we got married, if we had a family, that I thought you were-” _fuck_ , the anger was coming out of his eyes, rolling big fat angry _wet_ down his face “-you were gorgeous, and you told me I could be your - your _mistress_ or some fucking thing. Fuck you. _Fuck you_ , Malfoy, and fuck your cowardly family. Come talk to me if you grow enough of a spine to stand beside me out there,” Harry gestured to the stands, and turned on his heel and walked out.

\-----------------------------

It was the worst match of his professional life. He got whacked in the thigh by a bludger and fell headlong over the opposing team’s chaser trying to get at the snitch, plummeted fifty feet through the air and only halfway caught the ref’s cushioning charm before slamming into the grass. 

He lost consciousness. 

Someone cast _Ennervate_ on him just in time to see the other seeker catch the snitch, and Harry snatched off his gloves right there and headed in. 

Part of Harry had been hoping Draco would do something stupid and romantic at the start of the match, like run after him out the tunnel, and throw his arms around him and beg him to be forgiven, and Harry would have said, “of course, Gorgeous, of course, don’t cry,” and kissed his pretty cheeks, and the crowd would have cheered, or booed, probably, but what would it have mattered…

Naturally, nothing of the sort happened, and Harry had spent the match more and more frantic with his own completely unexpected grief. Nothing could have prepared him for how much this stupid arrangement meant to him, how much he had wagered his feelings on it continuing, or at least not blowing up in his face the way it had. 

He’d been stupid, and not paying attention, and hurt himself. Worse: Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he had gone onto the pitch _intending_ to hurt himself, and that had cost them the game, and probably the playoffs, they were so far behind in the points. 

Back in the changing rooms, Harry savagely ripped off his gear, savoring his blessed solitude, until Pucey came in, the rest of the team behind him, and made a snide comment about the two girls being too much for Harry to handle the same week as a match, and Harry snapped. He grabbed a stray Quaffle off the bench and turned and chucked it in the general direction of Pucey’s head, intending to hit the wall behind him, but it banged square into the open door of Harry’s locker instead, clattering loudly and sending his clothes flying out. 

Harry sighed. At least he’d get his locker sorted now; it had been a mess for some time. He was just about done stripping off the last of his pads. He scooped them into a pile and turned around. 

Pucey had a broad smile on his face, like Christmas had come early. 

Fuck. Last week. 

Harry and Draco had come in from practice last week. They’d fucked in the showers. 

Draco’s knickers - Harry had vanished them into his locker, with the rest of his clothes. 

They were lying on the floor. Bright pink against the white tile. Pucey stuck a toe out at them.

“Bring them back here, did you? Kinky bugger, Potter, didn’t think you had it in you.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. No, Pucey, I didn’t fuck them in the team showers.”

Pucey evidently thought it was his life’s mission to haze every player who’d joined the team after him, the arsehole. “Then what are they doing here? Did you want us to frame them?” He levitated them with a flick of his wand. “Not a bad idea, Potter.”

Harry was on his way across the floor, ready to punch Pucey in his fat mouth, when a pale hand reached out between them and plucked the pink fabric out of the air. 

Every pair of eyes in the locker room turned, at once, to see Draco Malfoy clutching his knickers. “Those are mine,” Draco said simply, his voice steady. Harry was astonished to see that he wasn’t shaking, not even a little. This was not at all the romantic, Quidditch match declaration Harry had been hoping for an hour ago.

It was so, so much better. “ _Yours?”_ Pucey asked, disbelievingly. “You wear… right, what’s Potter doing with your pink knickers in his locker?”

Draco looked at Pucey steadily, and with a fair amount of condescension. Harry thought he must have learned it from watching Hermione at school; it was so similar to the expression she wore whilst discussing _Hogwarts, A History_. 

“He’s been fucking _me_. In the showers.”

“Potter’s been fucking you in the showers? While you’ve been wearing -”

“No, obviously. We took them off first, that’s why they’re in his locker. Do try and keep up, Pucey.”

Oliver Wood was standing next to Pucey, and he flashed Harry a smile, reached out and knocked him on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way. 

Draco picked up his bag, evidently deciding to change somewhere more private, and walked out. 

The team watched him go, then slowly turned their heads to behold Harry, who knew, absolutely knew, that he had a stupid grin on his face, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. 

\------------------------

  
  


Narcissa Malfoy answered his owl immediately, and within an hour they were sat in a muggle coffee shop. She looked completely out of place and was fairly gawking at the green mermaid on the logo painted in the window; Harry made an order at the counter and sat down in front of her. 

“Mr. Potter.” 

“Harry.” He pulled out a second chair and put his feet up. “I’ve already ordered for you. Do you like frappuccinos?”

Narcissa stared at him for a full beat. “I haven’t the faintest idea what that could be.”

“I think you’ll like them,” Harry told her, confidently. 

“Let’s get down to the matter at hand, shall we?” Narcissa said, a bit prickly. 

“Yes,” said Harry. “We got off on the wrong foot, I think. Let’s try again.”

“Indeed,” said Narcissa. “How would you propose we start?”

“I’m Harry Potter. I’m your son’s boyfriend,” Harry said easily. 

“Are you sure he agrees that is the case?”

“Completely,” Harry said. “In fact, he only just -”

“NARCISSA,” yelled the barista, placing a frozen brown beverage on the counter. 

“Ah, that will be your frappuccino,” said Harry. Narcissa looked quietly horrified. “Don’t worry, it’s not been poisoned. Pick mine up too, while you’re there.” Harry made a shooing motion with his hands, and Narcissa walked to the counter, looking entirely mystified. 

When she returned, Harry continued. “We’re going to get to know each other quite well, I think,” he said. “You’re going to spend a lot of time with me. That’s because Draco and I are going to be spending a lot of time with each other. I like him, and I’d like to see him. In his home. And I’m not going to be entering through the back door, or the floo. I’ll be ringing the bell, showing up with flowers.”

Narcissa had the presence of mind not to chuck her oversized straw at Harry’s head, but Harry could tell she dearly wanted to. Harry took another drink from his espresso. It was a double. He felt wired already. “You’re going to support us, or not, doesn’t matter. I’m going to make him happy if I have to drag him kicking and screaming all the way there.”

At this, Narcissa smiled. “I’ve found, from long experience, that is usually what it takes to convince my son of anything.” 

“Er, right,” said Harry, unprepared for the sudden fond look she was giving him. “Well. The reason I’ve called you here.” He bent over and reached into his bag. He extracted a book and set it heavily down in front of Narcissa. 

“What’s this?”

“Possibly the only time I’ve bought a book for someone as recommended reading,” Harry said. “You’ll have to send Hermione an owl so she’ll believe it’s really happened. It’s about some muggle scientific advances. They’ve done incredible things with - well, with figuring out how to get people who can’t have children on their own to - to be able to have them.”

Narcissa ran her fingers gingerly over the cover. There was a man in a muggle picture with a newborn in his arms. Her lips parted, and the breath she took was heavy and breathless all at once. 

“I’m not saying Draco and I will - we’ve been together for such a short period of time, and we’re young, and he’s - well, you know how he is.”

“Difficult,” Narcissa said, looking up. “Self-destructive.” 

“I was going to say ‘prickly’,” Harry told her. They smiled at each other companionably.

“Still. Draco is gay, and he’s your son, and he’s perfectly capable of having children even if he doesn’t marry a woman, if that’s what he wants.” Harry let the smile drop off his face. “And you will support him and love him just as he is, regardless. No more trying to force him to marry someone he doesn’t love.”

Narcissa looked doubtful. “I’m still not entirely sure whether I trust this - what did you call it? Scienriffic… advances?”

“Scientific. Yes. And you should. It’s just as reliable as magic, really. More, in fact. Not so many quirks.”

Narcissa seemed to consider this. She took a tentative sip up her frappuccino, screwed up her face a minute, reconsidered, and took another sip. 

“Alright,” she said. 

\---------------------------

  
  


“You look splendid, Potter. Don’t make me late.” 

Harry scoffed at his reflection. “I’m not fussed about how I look. I can’t get used to formal wizard robes. This - thing -” Harry tugged irritably at his throat. “It’s confining, I feel like I’m being choked.”

“That thing is a cravat, and it’s the only neck wear that goes with this style of robes.”

“Something tells me Ron won’t care whether this thing is a few inches loose,” Harry replied, tugging at the fabric. 

“Hermione will, you’re in all her pictures,” Draco said, batting his hands away. “You don’t want her wedding album looking sloppy, do you?” 

Harry looked down at Draco, who had edged closer to his chest and was fiddling with the knotted cravat. His forearms rested on him gently. Harry cupped his elbows and moved him just a bit closer. 

“Draco. You’re hard.” 

Draco’s breath caught. His hands went still.

Harry walked him backwards towards the bed. “Do you need me to help you with that?”

This was a game they were playing lately, Harry gently condescending to Draco, touching him quietly until he came. It made Draco breathless with humiliation. Last time Harry had done this, Draco had been so overwhelmed he stuck his head under a pillow for ten whole minutes afterwards, trying to slow down. 

Draco’s legs were flush with the baseboard now, and Harry knocked him down cleanly, helped him settle back. “It's okay, gorgeous. Let’s get your pretty little cock out.” He rustled in the acre of fabric until he had it exposed. It was hard and dripping. 

“That’s right.” Harry started a slow wank with one hand, pressing Draco’s hips into the mattress with the other. “It’s good to feel sexual, isn’t it?”

Draco bit out a cry. Harry rubbed his free hand up and down Draco's thigh. “I’m sorry it took me so long to notice. Your cock needs to be wanked so much, doesn’t it?”

Draco’s teeth were chewing on his lower lip. He nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Harry touched him dispassionately for several minutes, Draco lying still and quiet. From time to time he made a soft noise or squirmed, which Harry encouraged gently. “That’s right, we need to get this soft before we leave, gorgeous, or you won’t be comfortable, will you?” 

Draco came quickly, grunting and sighing like a small animal. When he had finished, Harry cleaned him up with a tissue on the bedside. When they played like this, Harry never came, even though he felt like he wanted to hump himself furiously into Draco’s leg until he spilled into his trousers, or whatever else he was wearing. 

“That’s it. Are you ready to go now?”

Draco stared up at the ceiling. He got so worked up by this, this new little game that they’d found; Harry marveled at it every time, that he always had to stop for a few minutes and breathe slowly. Draco called it “coming back downstairs.” Harry loved it. He loved it. 

Harry helped Draco find his cloak and then bundled him downstairs into the coach. It was a bit of a drive across the Scottish countryside to Hogwarts, so they had hired a thestral carriage. Harry insisted they make a grand entrance. It was, after all, their first major social event since they’d gone public. Half the ministry would be there. Hermione would be wearing a dress so huge, Harry thought she might put Princess Diana to shame. 

He never thought Hermione was one for theatrics, but sitting in the front row at the head of a thousand wizards and witches, watching Ron take her hand, he was awed, as ever, at her instincts. She’d talked Ron into wearing the sword of Gryffindor, and he looked ferocious with it strapped to his side, knocking on his glinting black boots, the tall length of him splendid in the afternoon sun of the Great Hall. 

But Hermione deserved to wear it. She was the greatest warrior of them all. Harry watched her as she stood on the altar. She said her vows crisp and perfect. This slight woman had carried them all through the war. Harry and Ron had gotten their hands messy, but the heavy lifting, the strategy, the weight of everything had fallen on her rather tiny shoulders, and she had borne it with the grace of a dancer.

The life ahead of them looked so quiet now. Babies, and children; holidays, and making love. Harry took Draco’s hand and squeezed it. 

Ron lifted Hermione’s veil, and kissed her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely thrilled to have finished this in a way that pleases me. I've been terrified to complete it, and I hope if you've read it as I've been posting that it's not disappointing, too little or too much. This was my first fic to be published. The others were aborted - I did the digital version of ripping them up and throwing them away in someone else's trash can, as William S Burroughs said of his early writing. I have so many more planned - the next will be a bit of fluff on the topic of calligraphy and wedding planning, and I've got a few outlines of novels, so please, if you liked my work, subscribe to me as an author, and there will be more shortly. 
> 
> I'm also looking for a beta. This work was unbeta'd, which I think was important as it gave me some space to write, but the next fic will for sure have a beta. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Your comments have meant the world to me - I've been too shy to respond to them, but I've resolved to respond to the comments on the last chapter, every one of them.
> 
> And please come follow me on tumblr! https://cassiopeiasshadow.tumblr.com/


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